


Just as You Are Mine

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 16:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Bellamy’s already there by the time she makes her way to the centre of the room.She didn’t get a good look at him before, so Clarke takes the time to look at him now. He’s not all that much taller than she is, but the breadth of his shoulders feels worrying, somewhat. His skin is marked with a array of calluses and scars, white against his tanned skin, and the deft, sure movements he makes confirms that he’s every inch the warrior he’s promised to be.Swallowing, she steps forward, meeting his gaze. His face remains carefully blank, same as before, when Kane had told her that they’d be married.In hindsight, marrying a total stranger maynothave been one of Clarke's brightest ideas.(Or: Arranged Marriage AU. Clarke seals an alliance with the Broadleaf clan by marrying Bellamy Blake.)





	Just as You Are Mine

**Author's Note:**

> The world is truly a dumpster fire as of now so have some fic to distract you. Also, I was reading the winner's curse when I was writing this so if you see some similarities here and there, well... you know why.

_______________________

They’ve been in Skaikru territory for less than an hour when the first fight breaks out. 

It’s impossible to tell what the commotion is all about , really, considering how Bellamy has been sequestered away this whole time— so he’s definitely  _ surprised _ , to say the least, when someone comes  _ barging  _ into his tent with the entirety of his Guard in tow.

“ _ Sir _ ,” Sterling pants, staggering in, “I’m sorry for the intrusion, but she just…” he trails off, giving a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “She insisted on seeing you.”

He manages a brisk nod in his direction, lifts his hand in what he hopes passes as a conciliatory gesture. “It’s fine, Ster.” Then, mostly because he has a audience and Bellamy’s nothing if not inclined towards theatrics, he adds, flashing his teeth, “Things were getting a little dull around here, anyway.”

The girl standing before him seems distinctly unamused at that. She’s— not what he expected, if he’s being entirely honest. From what he’s heard of Skaikru, he’s assumed that most of them will be weak. Untested. But it’s impossible to miss the steel in her posture; the defiant jut of her jaw. The calculative slide of her gaze over his form, sizing him up.

_ Interesting.  _ Carefully, he straightens to his full height, staring her down. To her credit, she doesn’t look away, and it takes almost all of his willpower to keep his surprise from showing.

“So,” he drawls, rolling out his shoulders in a single, predatory motion, “to what do I owe this honor, Princess?”

A flicker of annoyance seems to flit through her features at that, and he tries  _ not  _ to feel irrevocably smug at having cracked her armor, if only for a second. “You’re,” she pauses, as if searching for the words, “you’re the one in charge of all of  _ this _ , aren’t you?”

“I’m one of the leaders of this movement, if that’s what you’re asking.” He shrugs, folding his arms across his chest. “Strange, though,” he continues, tilting his head in mock confusion, “I assumed my soldiers explained it all when we marched right in and claimed this as  _ our  _ territory.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait, unfortunately, her smile saccharine sweet when she tells him, “Now that I think of it, I think someone might have briefed us as we were being herded into _prison cells_ ,” she simpers, mirroring the slight cock of his chin, “but never mind that.”

“Is that so?”

A beat as she seems to brace herself, sobering. “I’m here because I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition,” he repeats, drawing the word out between his teeth. There’s something about her that feels strangely disquieting, somehow, as if he’s three steps away from tumbling off a knife’s edge and into swirling waters below. It discomfits him as much as it fascinates him. “And why should I listen to just  _ anyone  _ from Skaikru?”

“I’m not just anyone,” she frowns, brows knitting together. “I’m— the elected leader of the group. I’m in charge when it comes to Skaikru.”

He can’t help his smirk at that. “So you really  _ are  _ a Princess.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” she says, her tone frosty. Still, it’s impossible to miss her hesitance in the almost imperceptible tremble of her fingers; her sharp inhalation of breath, “I think it’d be in  _ both  _ of our interests if Skaikru was given its independence.”

There’s half a second where he’s pretty sure he’s misheard her, somehow, his brows jerking up to his hairline involuntarily. “ _ Excuse _ me?”

“You heard me,” she says, her voice growing stronger with each word. “I know for a fact that Broadleaf doesn’t have a large amount of forces. Your army is small, compact.” A pause, reluctance and grudging admiration leaking into her voice as she tells him, “Well-trained.”

“So?”

“So it means that your numbers will be significantly reduced should you take this territory by force,” she continues, fingers drumming out a restless beat against the inside of her arm. “You’ll need people here to watch over things, after all. Something that could disadvantage your clan greatly should you try to expand your reach.”

“Get to the point, Princess.”

“What I’m asking for— what seems to be a more  _ practical  _ solution— is an alliance,” she nods, biting at her lip. “Broadleaf gets to keep the territory, but Skaikru governs themselves. We’ll be  _ allies.  _ Partners. You ensure our survival, and we provide the bodies for when you  _ need  _ them.”

(It’s not— a  _ bad  _ idea, if he’s being entirely honest. It’s preferable to anything else the council had come up with, really, which mostly involved taking prisoners and leaving a sector of their newer recruits behind, but,  _ still. _ )

“It’s a sound idea,” he points out, careful. “Except for the fact where alliances in Broadleaf are sealed by marriages.”

She jolts at that, the expression smoothing away just as quickly as she steadies herself, gaze flicking up to meet his. “I see.”

“Generally, it’s not a proposition that’s very well received,” Bellamy says, mild. “But there are some things that the council won’t budge on, and this is one of them.”

“Seems pretty backwards of them.”

“I’m told that it’s tradition,” he snorts, sarcasm coloring his tone. “Anyway. If you’re done here, I can get Sterling to escort—”

“ _ Sterling _ ,” she interjects, sending a cutting look over to the guard hovering by the tent flap, “isn’t going to be escorting me anywhere.” Then, swallowing visibly, “I’ll do it.”

(A beat as he meets her unfaltering gaze, her fingers clenched by her sides. For some reason, the sight of it makes him  _ ache _ , ever so slightly.)

“You do know that they could marry you off to anyone on the council, right?” he says warningly, narrowing his eyes over at her. “Are you  _ sure  _ you’re willing to do this?”

She gives a brittle laugh at that, the loathing in her eyes stark. “It’s between  _ this  _ and saving my people. There’s not much of a choice to make now, is there?”

He grits his teeth, doesn’t  _ quite  _ manage to bite the retort that springs instinctively to his lips. “Well, if you’re sure,  _ Princess _ .”

That pulls a scowl from her, the expression more irritated than anything. “It’s Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

( _ It suits her,  _ he thinks, involuntary— and the thought of it is enough to make scowl right back at her.)

“Bellamy Blake.” He tells her, curt, before he’s reaching over to push the tent flap open, sweeping an arm out for her, “Now, let’s go get ourselves an alliance.”

  
  


+

They escort her back to the holding area, after, at the council’s insistence that they would require time to deliberate.

(There’s a small part of her that’s tempted to resist, really, but Clarke forces it down in favor of asking for some water instead. The others are growing restless— cooped up in a tent with barely enough room to  _ move  _ in— and there’s only so much Wells can do to placate them.)

He looks up at her approach, sidling over to give her room. “How was it?”

“Alright, I think.” She manages, settling into the small sliver of space offered and hitching her knees up to her chest. From what she can tell, everyone else is too distracted by the water to pay attention anyway, so she doesn’t bother lowering her voice when she tells him, “They want to seal the alliance with a marriage.”

His eyes go wide at that, comprehension dawning seemingly seconds after. “As in—  _ yours _ ?”

“Unfortunately,” she says, shooting him a tight smile. That pulls a surprised noise on his part; the sound distressed, more than anything, and she looks away before she can catch a glimpse of his expression. “Don’t look at me like _ that _ ,” she huffs, dropping her gaze to her hands. “I just— I did what I had to do.”

A beat, the weight of Wells’s gaze still heavy against her cheek. “Are you sure?”

“ _ Yes,  _ Wells.”

Another pause, this time longer than the last. Then, almost  _ too  _ nonchalantly, “Because I could always go in your stead, you know,” he tells her, wry, and she can’t help her own choked, watery laugh at that, reaching over to squeeze at his hand. “ _ Seriously _ . I’ve been told that I’d make a  _ ideal  _ husband by no less than three people.”

“One of them was your mom.”

“Still counts.”

She bites at the inside of her cheek, tapering a smile. “Keep telling yourself that.”

They fall silent once more, his hand sliding from her grip to offer her a cup of water instead. She takes it gratefully, chugs down half before wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thanks.”

His answering smile is soft. “You’re the one who got them to bring it over.”

“Yeah, but I only thought of it because it seemed like it’d be something  _ you  _ would do,” she teases, nudging at his ribs. “You’ve always been better at it, you know. Taking care of them.”

“You do, too,” he says, without missing a beat. “In your own way.”

It’s impossible to keep from snorting at that, so she does it anyway. “Like getting married to a total stranger just for the sake of an alliance?”

“There’s that,” he says, dry, “and the part where you patch everyone up constantly. We live in a encampment full of  _ teenagers,  _ and somehow, you always manage to maintain your cool when they come in with some other injury or the other.”

“Sometimes I don’t,” she points out absently, dipping the cup back to finish the rest of her water. In the distance, she thinks she makes out people emerging from the council tent, heads bent and faces drawn.  _ Shit.  _ “They’re not going to let me stay here, you know,” she adds, digging her nails into the skin of her palm, willing her pulse to slow. “I’ll have to go back to Broadleaf with them.”

His face tightens at that, brows drawing together. “I figured,” he says, voice cracking on the word. “I’ll— Clarke, I’ll take care of them.”

“I know you will,” she breathes, forcing a small, quick smile. The voices by their tent are gaining in volume, their footfalls loud against the grass, and there’s no mistake that they’re here for her, really. “It’s going to be fine, Wells.”

He says something in return, the words lost at the arrival of the guards, instructed to escort her back to the tent.

  
  


+

It takes a staggering amount of effort to keep from reacting when Kane informs the Princess that  _ yes, they’d be accepting the terms of the alliance _ , and that she’d be marrying  _ him _ to cement the deal.

The apprehension in her eyes is unmistakable as she turns her gaze on him once more. “As in,  _ Bellamy _ ?”

He keeps his face carefully blank, save for the instinctive clench of his jaw.

“Is there a problem?” Kane frowns, straightening in his seat. “Bellamy is one of the leaders of Broadleaf, as well as a respected General. Anyone would be lucky to marry him.”

She blinks, shaking her head as if to clear it. “No, of course not.” She says coolly, lacing her fingers together. “I’m pleased with these terms.”

_ Liar.  _ She’s not easy to read, by any means, but he can sense her displeasure from the slight curl of her lip, the tight set of her shoulders. They’re on the same page for that, at least, and the thought of it is strangely comforting.

“Excellent,” Kane booms, clapping at Bellamy’s back hard enough for him to stagger, “we’ll make the arrangements for a ceremony tonight, and you’ll ride with us to Broadleaf the next—”

“Unless,” he interrupts, cutting a quick glare over at Kane, “Skaikru has a different set of traditions that they have to abide to when it comes to marriage. We will, of course, then make some adjustments to our existing ones.”

_ That _ , of all things, seems to surprise her— lips parting as she stares up at him with undisguised suspicion.

He arches a brow right back at her. Waits.

“No,” she says finally, with a dip of her chin. “We don’t have any. Marriages are sparse amongst Skaikru.”

He shouldn’t say anything to that, really, shouldn’t give any indication that he  _ cares,  _ but—

“Didn’t you have marriages, back when you lived up in space?” Bellamy demands, wincing at the harshness in his own tone. 

She balks at that, but recovers just as quickly. The look she sends his way now is decidedly critical, as if re-evaluating a new and vastly more interesting opponent. “Not that I witnessed,” she says blandly, before directing her attention back to Kane once more. “Should I go start getting ready?”

Kane grunts out an affirmative, waving several attendants over to help her as Bellamy watches his betrothed slip out of the tent, head held high.

  
  


+

The dress she’s been given appears deceptively simple— white, sleeveless, floating down to her ankles— so Clarke’s definitely not expecting the amount of  _ effort  _ required to get her into it.

“It’s the traditional style of dress for Yujleda,” the attendant ( _ Harper,  _ she’s pretty sure) explains, tugging at the section of fabric looped over her shoulder. “Usually, they’re personalized to suit the bride, but with the little amount of time we have—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts in, forcing a brief smile. She’s been doing it so often that her cheeks hurt, and she  _ hates _ herself for it. Clarke’s not their guest, after all— she’s practically their  _ hostage,  _ so there’s no need to be polite, really.

Over on her left, a attendant is weaving strands of flowers into her hair, and another is smearing at her face with small vials of paint. From what she can tell, it’s purely decorative, but she can’t help but notice that they’re using blue and green almost exclusively—  _ Yujleda  _ colors.

Biting back the temptation to make a cutting remark, she focuses on trying to even out her breathing instead. In a matter of minutes, she’ll be  _ married.  _ To a stranger, no less.

(Despite everything, she can’t help but feel a vindictive rush of pleasure at the thought of her mother ever finding out about this. It’s  _ exactly  _ the sort of thing she would think of as a terrible life choice. Maybe Wells could pass on the message, if the Ark ever came down.)

The ceremony is to be held in the square, according to her attendants, with its strategic location right smack in the middle of camp being the main draw. She’s escorted there by a guard (this one a lot more stoic than the last) and she tries not to let the thought of having an armed escort in her own home chafe against her.

Bellamy’s already there by the time she makes her way to the centre of the room.

She didn’t get a good look at him before, so Clarke takes the time to look at him now. He’s not all that much taller than she is, but the breadth of his shoulders feels worrying, somewhat. His skin is marked with a array of calluses and scars, white against his tanned skin, and the deft, sure movements he makes confirms that he’s every inch the warrior he’s promised to be.

Swallowing, she steps forward, meeting his gaze. His face remains carefully blank, same as before, when Kane had told her that they’d be married.

(It’s… unnerving, if she’s being entirely honest.)

Their officiator is a dark-skinned woman she doesn’t recognize, and Clarke finds herself tuning out when she begins to speak almost exclusively in Trigedasleng, the words flowing smooth and easy off her tongue.  _ Wells _ had always been the one with the knack for languages, anyway— and she finds herself searching for him in the crowd until her gaze lands on the familiar figures clumped to the side of the space.

(She can feel a lump rising to her throat at the sight of them, so she turns away before she can do something stupid, like  _ cry. _ )

There isn’t the exchange of rings, like how they would do it back on the Ark. Instead, they clasp their paint-sticky palms together, his fingers winding through hers and holding it in place.

His grip is firm, but careful. Wary, as if seconds away from pulling back.

She’s not sure what possesses her to tighten her hold on him instead, but she does it anyway. He notices, if the slight rise of his brow is any indication, and the look in his eyes is almost challenging as he presses back with equal force, the edges of his lips curling up into a small smirk.

It’s hard to focus on anything else but the pressure of their joined hands, really, so she startles a little when he suddenly speaks, his voice rough, “I do.”

A beat as she processes this, staring out into the expectant faces of the crowd. The tension in the air is palpable, and it takes almost of her willpower to keep from bolting, at this point.

Clarke clears her throat, releasing a shaky breath. “I do.”

He leans over, then, pressing a dry kiss to her mouth as the world explodes into a riot of noise and color— and just like  _ that _ , she’s married.

  
  


+

Bellamy’s not one for weddings.

Theoretically, he understands the appeal behind it. Weddings amongst his people are extravagant affairs— there’s a feast after the ceremony, followed by games and dancing and drinking to all hours of the night. And while there’s  _ some  _ part of him that actually enjoys it, there’s always been a larger part of him that feels as if he could make a better use of his time, somehow.

His own wedding, thankfully, is a lot simpler than the typical Yujleda fare.

There’s still a feast, of course, and they do take a obligatory loop around the room, hand-in-hand, to accept various congratulations and gifts from members of both Yujleda and Skaikru alike— but that’s pretty much all to it.

( _ We have a early day tomorrow,  _ Kane reminds him, with the pointed jerk of his chin towards the cluster of stones congregated by the spot marked as  _ Skaikru _ on his map _. Don’t forget, Bellamy. We’re going home. _ )

The thought of it fills him with a immeasurable amount of relief, really, as does their approach to the last table in the room. They’ve been at this for the last half an hour, and the continuous stream of toothy smiles and well-wishes are starting to feel grating, despite his best attempts at being patient.

His wife, he’s sure, shares the same sentiment, considering the way she’s holding onto him— stiffly, their fingers linked loosely so as to put as much space between them as possible. The expression on her face is carefully blank, though he doesn’t miss the moments of impatience and annoyance that flashes on her face whenever someone so much as coos about how  _ lucky  _ she is to have snagged someone like him as a husband. (It’s always hard to school his own expression into calm neutrality whenever that occurs. There’s something about her irritation that amuses him to no end.)

Still, he can sympathize. It’s not like he’s having the time of his life either, and that’s what prompts him to finally address her, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard. “Almost there, Princess.”

That earns him a dirty look on her part. “I’m doing just  _ fine,  _ thank you.”

Her anger isn’t unexpected, but the pure  _ venom _ in her voice hits him like a blow to the ribs. “Right,” he sneers, instinctive, disdain dripping off each word, “I didn’t realize that the constipated look on your face was a permanent thing.”

She flushes at that, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to be angry after _you_ insinuated that I couldn’t handle any of this,” she huffs, nails digging slightly into the skin of his knuckles, “I’m not someone who can’t hold her own.”

“Trust me, Princess,” he drawls, rolling his eyes surreptitiously, “that’s the furthest thing from what I was thinking.”

“Good.” She says primly, turning away. Not quickly enough for him to miss the slight tilt to her lips, though, and he can feel his own mouth twitching in response to it.

There’s nothing unusual about the rest of the interactions with the last of their guests, and he takes a few extra minutes to thank them for their patience before sliding their gifts into the growing pile of items by the center of the room. So far, it’s mostly been a motley of knives and armor, which he can’t bring himself to complain about. They’re practical, at least, and Clarke would appreciate a good blade, he assumes.

What he  _ isn’t  _ expecting is for her to light up at the sight of a fresh set of paints, accompanied by a array of glossy brushes and charcoal.

“Wow,” she breathes, running a finger along the brush handles. Then, almost reverent, “Are you— this is for me?”

“It’s for the both of you.” Harper shrugs, smiling. “Well,” she adds, with an exaggerated sigh, “not that  _ Bellamy  _ would have much use for it. You should know that your husband’s artistic talent only extends to stick figures and the blood splatters of his enemies.”

He can’t quite help his scowl at that. “Just because  _ I  _ thought finger-painting back when we were  _ seven  _ was  _ impractical _ —”

“You told us that we were making a mess of things and tried to clean up, remember?”

“I was  _ trying  _ to keep things in order.”

“You were  _ stifling _ our creativity,” she retorts, planting her hands on her hips. “Admit it: you were bossy, even as a kid.”

He makes a face, resisting the urge to look over at Clarke despite it being entirely impossible to miss the weight of her gaze on him. She’s watching their interaction with interest, head half-cocked, and he whips his face away before she can spot him peeking over at her. “Sure, Harp. Whatever you say.”

“I had numerous witnesses,” she reminds him, shaking her head ruefully. “Anyway, good luck to you, Clarke. This one’s a handful.”

That actually pulls a full-blown  _ laugh  _ out of her— the sound bright and easy, and he swears he feels his chest constrict at it. “That is possibly the only honest thing I’ve heard from anyone all day,” she says, wry. “I have to say, it’s nice.”

“Stick with me,” Harper grins, throwing him a conspiratorial wink. “I promise you that there’s a lot more of where that came from.”

He sticks his tongue out at her, quick enough so no one else would notice. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Look, I would love to stay and catch up, but we should be going. We have an early start for tomorrow.”

Clarke seems to sober at that, as if remembering the exact reality of her situation. “You’re right,” she manages, and this time, her smile is forced. “Nice meeting you again, Harper.”

“You too.”

Harper is the last of the guests present, so it’s only natural to make their hasty exit, now that they can. He leads Clarke out of the tent to the raucous cheers and whoops of the others, and it’s an effort not to make some sort of smart comment— to say  _ anything  _ that would break the ice, really.

She drops his hand the second they’re out in the open, the silence descending over them chilly enough to freeze running water.

Suppressing a sigh, he rubs at the back of his neck— a nervous habit that he never grew out of, despite the numerous people who have pointed it out. “You should— I’ll bring you to your tent, if you’re tired.”

“You mean yours,” she says, quiet. The implication behind the words is enough to make his blood go cold, his palms going sweaty.

“Yeah,” He replies, because she doesn’t seem to be the type who would  _ want  _ him to sugarcoat anything. There’s a part of him that recognizes that he should assure her that she owes him nothing, that there isn’t a need to be  _ worried  _ about fulfilling any sort of duties in particular, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he settles for, “Go rest. I won’t be back until late, and there’s no point in you staying up and hanging about.”

She falters slightly at that, biting at her lip. “Oh. You’re— you’re sure?”

“Go ahead.” He manages, brisk, turning away. “I trust you know your way to my tent, considering how you unceremoniously barged in just hours back. I have work to attend to.”

He thinks he hears her snort before he’s walking away, back towards the council tent. It’s blessedly empty, with everyone else still busy celebrating in the square, and he settles back into his favorite chair before grabbing at his copy of  _ The Iliad,  _ settling back to read.

(In the end, he falls asleep right where he is, curled up right against the chair. His last, fleeting thought is to wonder if Clarke had opted for his bed rather than the ground. Somehow, he thinks he already knows the answer to that.)

  
  


+

The first thing she sees the next morning is his untouched bed roll— quilts still piled atop of it and pillow uncreased.

Swallowing, Clarke sits up, grimacing at the stiffness of her muscles. The sight of it fills her with a confusing jumble of relief and irritation, all at once, and the aching of her body doesn’t help things much.

(Last night, her decision to sleep on the ground had seemed defiant and brave. In the cold light of day, however, her decision to sleep on the ground just feels  _ stupid. _ )

Biting back a swear, she rises to her feet, staggering over to grab at the washcloth in her bag. There’s not much that she intends to bring with her to Broadleaf, but she has amassed a small supply of clothes, parchment, and maps that should help. Wells had even offered her his carefully annotated copy of _ Edible Herbs and Plants,  _ which she has carefully stowed away in one of her shirts.

She washes up, using the small tub of water by the side of his tent before changing into a lightweight top and a pair of pants. It’s not like anyone has really mentioned what constitutes as appropriate travelling wear, really, and considering the notable absence of her _husband_ , it’s not like there’s anyone she can ask.

Shouldering her meagre belongings over her shoulder, she takes a deep breath, steeling herself before ducking out of his tent—

Only to run straight into someone; the force of it nearly sending her sprawling.

She squeaks, only managing to regain her balance by leaning into the warm weight at her waist, pushing her up and back onto her feet.

“Careful there, Princess,” Bellamy smirks, pulling back, and she can’t quite repress the shiver that sweeps past her at his proximity; his breath hot against the shell of her ear. “Not everyone is going to move out of your way just because you’re in charge around here, you know.”

She scoffs at that, folding her arms across her chest. “Says the person who  _ barged  _ right into me the second I walked out of the tent,” she counters, narrowing her eyes over at him. “What, were you just  _ hovering  _ out there?”

That, surprisingly, seems to annoy him. “I have better things to do with my time, Clarke.” He says, sounding almost impatient. Then, cutting his gaze away, he adds brusquely, “I was just coming over to help you get ready for our departure.”

She blinks, hitching the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder. He seems almost  _ embarrassed  _ by the suggestion, and she can’t help but wonder if there’s any truth in it, now. “That’s— nice, I guess, but unnecessary. I’m already packed.”

“No, not that,” he frowns, arcing on his heel and gesturing her forward, leading her past his tent and towards the edge of camp, “Wells told me that Skaikru travels primarily by foot, but I’m assuming that you guys know—”

She stops short, a incredulous laugh escaping. “ _ Horses. _ ”

“Yeah, and—” a muffled swear on his part, accompanied by a strangled noise, “ _ hey _ . Wait up.”

Distantly, a part of her recognizes that he’s saying something else, too, but the rest of his response is lost in her haste to get over to them. Up close, they’re even more beautiful than she thought they would be, and she extends a tentative hand out, giggling when one of them leans over to nuzzle at her palm.

“I take it that horses aren’t a common occurrence around here.” He says, dry, drawing up next to her.

“Definitely not,” she breathes, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from showing. Carefully, she reaches over to stroke at its neck, down its mane. “Does it have a name?”

A beat, and she can practically  _ feel  _ his hesitance weighing at her before he says, soft, “Hestia.”

“Hestia.”

“She’s the Goddess of—”

“I know who Hestia is,” she cuts in, shooting him a wry look.

His jaw seems to tighten a fraction at that, a hint of a grudging smile creeping up on his face. For half a second, she thinks he might actually say something to that, but then he clears his throat instead, says, “I suppose this means that you  _ don’t  _ know how to ride?”

“No,” she manages, shrugging. “I don’t know what Wells told you, but we never travelled far enough to have to find other modes of transport. We mostly held down the fort here.”

He gives a absentminded hum in response, rucking his fingers through his hair. “Okay, then.”

“ _ Okay? _ ” she echoes, disbelieving. “I just told you about my inability to ride, and how that’s going to hamper  _ everyone’s  _ journey back—”

“I’ll handle it,” Bellamy interjects, abrupt. Still, it’s impossible not to notice the softening of his expression when he finally tells her, quiet, “if I were you, I’d be saying my goodbyes right about now.”

The momentary excitement from before seems to evaporate at the reminder, leaving behind a sick, cold sensation in her gut.  _ Right.  _ She licks at her lips, steadies her hands by her sides. “Oh.”

His expression is downright unreadable, at this point, but she thinks she detects a tinge of regret flitting through his gaze before he looks away, dipping his chin down towards the ground. “I’ll see you at the western edge of the border in five minutes.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, barely managing to force down the rapidly rising nausea in her throat before she’s moving, making her way towards Wells’s tent.

  
  


+

He’s checking on the rest of the horses when she steps into view, her back towards him and Wells at her elbow.

(It’s not unexpected, though he can’t help but feel a little surprised at how there doesn’t seem to be anyone else that she would  _ want _ to say goodbye to. He had looked at her— all fair hair and bright eyes and assumed that she was the well-loved Princess of the story, somehow. In this narrative— and in many others, most likely— he was the dragon, stealing her away in the dead of the night. The final obstacle to be slayed, when someone better or more worthy came along.)

She says something too low for him to discern, then, eyes bright, and he thinks he catches the tail end of her sentence ( _ we’ll meet again) _ before Wells is pulling her into a hug, squeezing at her shoulder comfortingly. That feels like his cue to look away, and so he does, dropping his gaze to the horse before him.

He’s putting the finishing touches onto Hestia’s saddle when she approaches; the sound of her footfalls alerting him to her presence.

Her eyes are a little red around the edges, but that seems to be the only indicator of her distress, really. The lift of her chin is proud, more than anything, and her voice is steady when she asks, “Are we leaving yet?”

“Soon,” Bellamy shrugs, extending a hand out to help her with her pack. It’s lighter than he thought it would be, fitting easily alongside his. “I asked if you could ride on the cart with the rest of the things,” he says briskly, tightening the last of the dangling straps of the saddle, “but there’s not enough room, apparently.”

Her brows rise up to her hairline at that, skeptical. “It barely holds all of your cargo,” she points out, dry. “You  _ really  _ thought I’d be able to fit?”

“Well, I did consider asking them to build you a carriage,” he drawls, working to hide his irritation at the sharpness of her tone, “but we’re lacking on resources as it is. You’re going to have to ride alongside us mere mortals,  _ Princess _ .”

“ _ Clarke _ ,” she hisses, baring her teeth. “My name is  _ Clarke _ .”

He manages yet another flippant shrug, petting at Hestia’s side. “If the shoe fits.”

“Trust me, it doesn’t.”

“If you say so, your highness.” He says, tart. In the distance, he thinks he spots Kane hoisting himself up on his horse, Miller following soon after. Time to go. “Like it or not, riding with me seems to be your best option. So up and at them, Princess.”

She gives a blank stare in return, mouth dropping open to gape. “ _ What? _ ”

He sighs, running a hand over his face to calm himself. “Look, I’d ask Harper to ride with you, but she’s on sentry duty. I understand that it might make you uncomfortable, but it’s only for—”

“It’s not that,” she interrupts, her voice clipped. “I’ll ride with you.”

“Well, thank fuck.” He mutters, exhaling raggedly. The horses around them are stirring, the ground shaking slightly at the strike of hooves as a wave of riders stream past them. “Go on, then. I’ll steer from behind you.”

“I don’t know  _ how _ ,” she snaps, throwing her hands up frustratedly. “I’ve— I’ve never done this before.”

_ Right.  _ The uncertainty in her gaze shames him for having forgotten in the first place, and he clears at his throat, grabbing at the reins. “It’s fine. I’ll teach you.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, but doesn’t flinch away either when his fingers brushes up against hers, passing the reins over. “Hold this. Tightly, so you can pull her back if she jerks away, but don’t yank.”

“Okay.”

“Slide one foot into the stirrup.” He instructs. “Then, lift yourself up and swing the other leg over. You can grab onto her mane to balance yourself if need be, and—  _ shit _ —”

He grabs at her waist before she can hit the ground, tilting back at a dangerous angle to hold her in place. Her leg is still caught in the stirrup, and it takes a careful amount of maneuvering before he finally gets her upright, hoisting her up onto Hestia.

Her cheeks are flaming by the time he clambers on. “Thanks,” she mutters, so softly he has to strain to hear it.

“It’s fine,” he says shortly, his breath catching when she leans back into him, his arms going around her sides instinctively. Up close, she smells of soap and something powdery and sweet; her hair tickling at his jaw. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He taps his foot at Hestia’s side to get her moving. They lurch forward, sudden, and she gives a little gasp at it, her fingers scrabbling at his wrist as Hestia breaks into a trot. It takes almost everything in his power to keep from  _ laughing _ , at that— not so much at her fear, but at the mingling awe in her expression as they begin to pick up the pace, bursting through the trees.

“Wow,” she breathes, a smile overtaking her face as he spurs Hestia on faster, pulling up to their position closer to the front of the party. “Is this— is this the fastest she can go?”

He can’t help his snort at that, shaking his head ruefully. “We’re not even at a gallop yet, actually.”

Her laugh is breathless, cut short as she chances a quick glance back— towards camp, towards the people she’s left behind.

He thinks he catches her face fall as the last of the tents disappears from sight, swallowed by the trees as they plunge further ahead, deeper into the woods.

  
  


+

They’ve been riding for the past three hours before she can bring himself to ask, the inside of her thighs smarting and muscles  _ aching _ .

“So,” Clarke starts, conversational, “how much longer until we get to camp?”

That seems to startle him, judging from the way he reels back slightly before composing himself. (She supposes that it can’t be helped, considering this is the first time she has addressed him since they left.)

“Not much longer,” Bellamy says, gruff. It’s an effort to repress the tremor simmering beneath her skin when she can feel the rumble of his chest against her back, really, but she manages. “Technically, we’re only about an hour or two away, but it’s getting dark, so Kane might want to set up camp instead.”

“But,” she frowns, scanning the horizon before her, “we’re right out in the open.”

“The tundra is a part of Yujleda territory,” he explains, readjusting his grip on the reins. “So we’ll be safe, here. The only thing we need to watch out for are the wolves.”

Her body jerks instinctively at the thought of it, the motion nearly sending her tumbling off before she grabs at Hestia’s mane, steadying herself. “ _ What? _ ”

“Wolves,” he repeats, and she can practically  _ hear  _ the frown in his voice, this time. “Weren’t there any, back at your camp?”

“ _ No _ ,” she squeaks, before forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath. The sharp, cool air does the trick, thankfully, and this time when she speaks, it’s even. “There were deer and boar in the area, but that’s about it. I didn’t— I assumed some of the species went extinct, at this point.”

He makes a agreeable noise at that. “Perhaps.”

“Hopefully,” She mutters, turning her face forward once more. The horses are beginning to slow, up ahead, and she thinks she spots a few riders dismounting, shouldering several bundles of fabric and wood.  

It’s distracting enough that she doesn’t entirely notice that Bellamy is  _ saying  _ something, only snapping back into focus when he tugs gently at the reins, bringing Hestia’s trot to a amble instead.

“Did you say something?”

He nods, the muscle in his jaw fluttering slightly. “We’ll be making camp, here. It’s too much of a hassle to set up anything, so we’ll just be using our camping tents and bedrolls.”

None of it seems to explain the reason behind the sudden tenseness in his form, but she lets it drop, for now. “Okay.”

“You can share a tent with Harper,” he continues, dismounting in a single, fluid motion. The sudden absence of his warmth at her back makes her shiver, as does his hands at her waist as he helps her down. “Or I’ll share with Miller. Whichever you prefer.”

(It’s… surprisingly  _ considerate _ , of him, if she’s being entirely honest. Maybe he’s doing it for his own benefit, but she has difficulty believing that, somehow. Nothing about Bellamy Blake is easy or expected, really, and everything about it makes her feel strangely off-kilter.)

_ Thank you,  _ she tries to say, but all she manages is a stiff nod. “I’ll share with Harper.”

“Okay.” He says, shrugging, before directing his focus back to unbuckling Hestia’s saddle.

A beat, with her dithering by his side, unsure if she should leave— Bellamy still placidly stroking at Hestia, oblivious— before he finally breaks the silence, a small smile playing on his lips, “You’re a heavy sleeper, I hope?”

She blinks, taken aback. “I guess?”

“Good,” he says, mild, already leading Hestia away by the reins, “because Harper’s snores are known to be heard throughout camp.”

It takes a while for the words to sink in, another for indignation to catch up. “You’re—  _ hey.   _ Don’t walk away from me!”

“Have a good rest, Princess.” He smirks; the small, half-laugh he gives trailing her for hours after.

  
  


+

Dinner that night is a short affair, with the hunting party only managing to snare a small coyote for dinner. There’s a decent amount of grumbling around the fire at that, and he hands his portion off to Monroe on the pretense of having some jerky instead before retreating back to his tent for some peace and quiet.

Not that it  _ lasts,  _ or anything, considering his wife’s tendency to barge into his tent unannounced.

He doesn’t bother lifting his head from his book, this time. “Do I  _ want  _ to know?”

“No, but it’s not like you have a much of a choice,” she declares, tart, before reaching over to zip at the opening of his tent. It’s cramped, and she has to crouch over him, her scowl evident even in the half-dark. “Kane’s tent is right by Harper’s.”

“So?”

“So I don’t think it’ll be a good start to our alliance if he sees me sleeping with anyone who  _ isn’t  _ my husband.”

It’s true, by any measure, but  _ Bellamy’s  _ not going to be the one to tell her that. “Kane doesn’t care,” he manages weakly, pointedly ignoring the eye-roll she shoots him in response. “Seriously. The guy is out like a light the second his head hits the pillow.”

“Well, I’m not risking the alliance I worked so hard to get just because  _ you’re  _ prudish,” she retorts, easing past him and dropping her bedroll onto the small sliver of space next to him. “Don’t worry, I think I have enough self-control to keep from  _ ravishing _ you in the middle of the night.”

He can’t help his own scowl at that. “Remind me never to do you any favors, Princess.”

“Never do me any favors.” She says, her voice thick, before turning her back towards him.

Snorting, he shakes at his head, directing his attention back to his book. Apollo had just called down the plague on the army, and things were just about getting interesting. He would read until she fell asleep, and  _ then _ —

“Is she in the book you’re reading?”

Her voice is soft. Hesitant. It startles him from his reverie almost instantaneously, and for a second he can only blink, staring down at the form cocooned in a bed-roll, wondering if he imagined it.

“Hestia,” she says, at his continued silence. “Did you read about her from this book?”

He licks his lips, wetting them. “No. I read about her in another book.  _ The Complete Book of Greek Stories _ .”

She makes a soft noise at that. “Was it this— uh, this red, leather-bound book? Gold titling, really thick and fat. The pages were made of onionskin.”

“I don’t think so,” he says, slow. “Well, at least not my copy. The spine was falling apart, and the cover was green.”

“Oh.”

“You might be talking about another edition.”

“Maybe,” she murmurs, shifting slightly. The crinkle of her bedroll feels unusually loud in the quiet, and he can’t help but wonder if this is what an out-of-body experience feels like, somehow— suspended in space, limbs unresponsive and watching the firelight play off her hair, flashing red and gold like some some sort of phoenix. (He can’t bring himself to look away.) “My dad used to have a copy, I think.”

Bellamy smiles, despite himself. “Yeah?”

“It was his favorite,” she continues, absent. “There was this whole row of leather-bound books in his study, and they were all just  _ stories _ , you know? I wasn’t allowed to touch them because the copies were invaluable, so he would read them to me every night. Hestia was in some of them.”

He’s not sure what to say to that, really, and eventually, he settles on, “Did he bring them down with him, when your ship came down?”

It’s impossible to miss the way her shoulders seem to stiffen at that, curling into herself. “No,” she murmurs, then, haltingly, “He didn’t— he was killed. Before, that is.”

_ I’m sorry,  _ he nearly says, before biting back the words. Clarke would  _ hate  _ his pity more than anything, and he didn’t want her to stop talking. Not quite yet.

“Can I ask why?” he asks, working to keep his voice even. Steady.

A pause, this time weighter than the last. “He was soft,” she says finally. “Good.  _ Too  _ good, you know? There’s no room for that up in space. There’s no room for  _ anything,  _ up on the Ark.” She gives a shaky exhale at that, a watery laugh. “You had to fight for every inch you could get. You either made yourself inexpendable, or small enough to be inconspicuous. He was neither, and they killed him for it.”

(It’s not the story he wants to hear— not really, but it still feels momentous, somehow. He can’t help but feel as if he’s been given some insight on her; all stars and shrapnel, hard lines and soft eyes and maybe he’s just that  _ one  _ step closer to understanding Clarke Griffin, after all.)

“So,” he says, careful. “They— those people who killed him. They didn’t make it down?”

“No.”

“They died?”

A snort, shifting against her bed roll once more. “Hopefully.”

“Good,” he says simply, before hunkering it down in his own bedroll. Like this, they’re close enough that he can feel the warmth of the small of her back, pressed against his— her form relaxing against his before her breaths even out, filling the space with sound.

  
  


+

“Clarke.  _ Clarke _ .”

She jerks awake, breathing hard— her vision slowly adjusting to the light now streaming through her tent. Her pack is exactly where she left it last night, along with her socks, neatly rolled over the top of her boots. There’s a fresh set of clothes placed at the foot of her bedroll, and finally, Harper, hovering over her with worry etched at her brow.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary, from what she can tell, but then again, it’s  _ earth.  _ (She had assumed that the two-headed deer would be the worst of it, and it had set out to continually prove her wrong.)

“Nothing,” Harper sighs, reaching over to squeeze at her shoulder. “You didn’t show up for breakfast, or when we were prepping the horses, so I decided to check up on you.” Then, briskly, “Go get changed, we’re leaving.”

A beat, realization only dawning seconds after. “Wait, we’re leaving  _ now _ ? As in, right this minute?”

“ _ Now,  _ Clarke.”

Cursing vigorously, she kicks at her blanket, scrambling for her crumpled heap of clothes. Harper ducks out of her tent, then, shoulders shaking with laughter, and it takes almost all of her willpower to keep from  _ swearing _ at her, really.

A few more minutes and she’s dressed, yanking on her boots before stomping out into the open.

The clearing has pretty much emptied out, at this point, and she zeroes in on him almost immediately, fury and  _ embarrassment  _ tearing through her—

“You absolute fucking  _ asshole, _ ” she spits, pushing her pack at him with enough force to make him stagger, “what, were you just going to leave me out for the wolves? Hope that I get picked off so you wouldn’t have to deal with me? Well,  _ buddy,  _ trust me, the feeling is  _ mutual,  _ and—”

“I was coming to get you,” Bellamy cuts in, brows raised, “but Harper beat me to it.”

“ _ That’s  _ a likely story.”

“Relax _ ,  _ Princess.” He snorts, folding his arms across his chest. “You’d really think I’d give up on my hard-won alliance just because you’re not that pleasant to be around?”

She opens her mouth to argue against that line of logic, delving into a series of sputters instead. “ _ Please.  _ It wasn’t— it wasn’t  _ that  _ hard-won.”

That pulls a small smile out of him, his expression going wry. “Speak for yourself. I had to sweet-talk the rest of the council for a whole  _ hour  _ after they sent you out.”

The thought of it is surprising enough that it startles her into silence, if only for a second. She’s always known that Bellamy had believed in the necessity of an alliance, just like her, but she never could have guessed the extent of it. It had been easier to assume that he would enjoy the bloodshed and chaos that came with conquering other territories.

Clearing her throat, she crosses her arms over her chest, mirroring his posture. A refusal to be cowed, or to be made to feel guilty. Then, abruptly, “So, are we going or what?”

“After you, Princess.” He smirks, sweeping an arm out over to Hestia.

She makes sure to shoot him a dirty look before sliding her foot into the stirrup, swinging herself up and over out of sheer spite. (And momentum, probably.)

He must have noticed, if the huff of laughter he gives is any indication. Unwittingly, she finds her thoughts drifting over to that small, contented noise he had made the night before, the quiet in his voice.  _ Good.  _ There hadn’t been any judgement in it, or horror (like Wells sometimes did, despite his best intentions) and it had been  _ nice,  _ if she’s being entirely honest.

She snaps out of her reverie at the brush of his arms against her sides, his fingers weaving nimbly through the reins. “Ready?”

Swallowing, she manages a nod, raising her chin. “Let’s go.”

He eases Hestia into a trot, then, eventually working her up into a full-on gallop, and the next few hours are spent in tense, anxious silence.

It’s easy to tell the path that the rest of Yujleda has been through with the trail of fallen branches and muddy footprints leading the way, and yet Clarke’s still surprised by the time they arrive— charging through towering walls into a settlement, of sorts, with several small, thatched structures spread throughout the trees.

Actual,  _ proper  _ houses. (The shelters and huts they built back in Skaikru feel laughable in comparison now.)

“Home sweet home,” Bellamy mutters, dismounting in a single, fluid motion. His gaze is fixed on the cabin by the center of camp— larger and a little longer than the rest, shadowy figures visible through the screen door.

She follows, albeit a lot less gracefully, and she has to hide her wince at the slight twist of her ankle before she manages to right herself. “Home sweet home,” she echoes dryly, biting at her lip. Already, she can feel the stares, the whispers starting up. “What’s next?”

He hesitates, petting absently at Hestia’s neck. “Depends on what you’d prefer,” he says finally, shrugging. “You can go to your cabin if you’re tired, or I can show you around.”

“Our cabin,” she corrects, mostly because she’s difficult like that. “And no, I’m not tired. In case you’re forgetting, I slept in this morning.”

“Like you’d let me forget,” he quips, sighing. There’s no heat in the words, though, and she has to bite at the inside of her cheek to suppress the beginning of a smile. “C’mon, then.”

As it turns out, it’s not too difficult to get around Yujleda. Most of the paths are clearly marked, though he does make it a point to show her several shortcuts and hidden pathways to get to certain places quicker. There’s a mess hall, and kitchens, and _greenhouses,_ even, and she tries not to gape when he points out the armory and forge, too.

What’s more surprising, strangely enough, is how  _ popular  _ Bellamy seems to be amongst everyone.

It’s not entirely unexpected, considering their incessant gushing over him during her wedding ceremony— but _this_ feels like an all new level, altogether. There’s a constant stream of people coming up to him, sometimes just to say hi, and other times to conduct low, murmured conversation before walking away, clapping at his back as they go. Still, the _fondness_ in their faces is unmistakable, and she has to suppress a stab of envy that rushes through her with each one of them. (Being well-liked is a feeling that she’s distinctly unfamiliar with.)

“I like your fan club,” she muses, watching as they skip away— a bunch of kids, this time, tugging at his pants and insisting that he play with them after. “Seriously,” she adds, at the evident exasperation on his face, “they  _ adore _ you. You’d be blind not to see it.”

His brows draw together at that, an expression almost akin to confusion flashing across his face. “They’re my friends,” he says plainly, frowning. “Of course they’d be excited to see me.”

The genuine sincerity in his voice tells her that he truly believes it— that he doesn’t see the kind of loyalty he manages to inspire in people, that he doesn’t believe that he has any sort of  _ power _ over them— and she can’t help the surge of protectiveness that rises up within her, at that. It’s the kind of blind, stubborn belief that she wished she had; a kind of faith in the  _ goodness  _ of people that she could never seem to possess.

“Probably,” she says, deliberately nonchalant. It doesn’t seem to fool him, considering the way he’s  _ still  _ looking at her, gaze intent against the side of her face. She clears at her throat, tries again, “So, what time’s dinner? I’m starved.”

That finally gets him to relax, at least. “I thought you’d never ask,” he grins, beckoning her forward— his palm sun-warm and rough as it grazes at her wrist, making her pulse spike involuntarily.

She ducks at her chin before he can catch her flush, tucking her hands into the pockets of her jacket.

Still, the fleeting warmth of his fingers stays with her all the way to the mess hall, and for hours after.

 

+

The whole idea of securing a lone table by the back is not so much a game plan as it is a method of self-preservation, really, considering how overwhelming the mess hall can be.

(The looks and murmured comments are bad enough as it is. He’s not planning on having to subject Clarke to navigating the various social politics that comes with Yujleda.)

So,  _ naturally _ , his plan is thwarted the second he steps past the threshold.

Miller gets to him first, bumping at his hip in lieu of hello. “Going somewhere?”

He gives a half-hearted grunt in response, weaving past him and towards the quieter side of the room. “Evidently.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you don’t happen to be,” he mutters, feigning to the left— only for him to step right into his path, forcing him to a stop.

There’s a giant, shit-eating grin on Miller’s face, and Bellamy has to resist the urge to do something _stupid,_ like throw a punch just to get out of dealing with the pure _awkwardness_ of the situation. “Seriously?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “ _That’s_ how you want to play it?”

“ _ You’re  _ the one being unreasonable right now,” he points out, mild. The note of reason and calm in his voice positively  _ reeks  _ of Monty, and Bellamy makes sure to send a withering look over at him before turning his attention back on Miller. “C’mon,” he continues, with a nonchalant shrug, “we have food for you guys and more than enough space.”

The last part of the sentence is clearly directed at Clarke, if the way she jerks to attention is any indication. Still, he thinks he senses hesitation in the slight incline of her head; hands still shoved into the pockets of her jacket.

“It’s your call,” he tells her, managing a shrug of his own. Then, rolling his eyes pointedly, “Look— don’t feel like you have to be polite just because this asshole is  _ standing  _ right here.”

“Oh, no,” Miller deadpans, snorting. “You definitely don’t have to do  _ that _ .”

It’s an effort to keep his smile at bay at that, despite his lingering anxiety about everything. “Seriously, don’t worry about it,” he says, relenting. “Miller is used to disappointment. Everyone in his life does it on a regular basis.”

“Well, fuck you too, Blake.”

“I’ll consider it if you asked nicely.”

“... We’re not doing this in front of your wife.”

He sneaks a surreptitious peek over at her, finds himself more than a little relieved to see her  _ smiling _ ; chin cocked and shaking at her head ruefully. “Consider me convinced,” she says wryly, falling into step next to him.

Miller’s table isn’t too far off, and as promised, comes with a good amount of space and food. He slides into the nearest empty seat, pointedly ignoring everyone’s curious, blatant stares as Clarke plops down from across him, folding her hands into her lap.

A subdued, almost polite pause. He would be surprised, really, if he didn’t spot Jasper practically _shaking_ with the effort of staying quiet—

“So,” he says dryly, reaching for his bowl of porridge, “what’s new with you guys?”

That, predictably, sets Jasper off. “How did you go off on a _week_ -long trip and come home with a _wife_?” he gapes, raking his gaze over Clarke unabashedly. “No, seriously. Like, was it a whirlwind romance sort of deal, or is it more of like, _Romeo_ _and Juliet_ style, because I _never_ pegged you as—”

“Ignore him,” Raven interrupts, rolling her eyes. It’s impossible to miss her considering once-over as she hands Clarke her set of cutlery, though, brows raised. “He’s been testing out a new batch of moonshine lately, and it’s going to his head.”

“This has nothing to do with the moonshine!”

Monty gives a short huff of laughter at that, distinctly amused. “Says the person who smells like a walking distillery.”

“Please,” Jasper scoffs, giving a dismissive wave of his fingers. Then, turning his attention back onto Clarke, “If you must know, I take my job as a taste tester  _ very  _ seriously,” he says with a grin, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Jasper Jordan. And you must be the Princess from Skaikru.”

“Not a Princess,” she says, tilting at her chin so she can shoot him a pointed, unamused look. He can’t help his own grin at it, shrugging. “But, uhm, yeah. I’m Clarke.”

Conversation flows easy, after that— mostly centered around how she’s liking Yujleda, so far, and the differences between the various clans. She relaxes a few minutes into it, starts asking a few questions in return, even, and he finds himself cataloguing every single one of her responses instinctively, filing them away for future reference.

He’s spooning a little more porridge into his bowl, listening to Raven’s grumbling about the new workers at the forge when she catches his eye, leaning forward suddenly, “I want to help.”

“What?”

She drops her gaze back down to the tabletop, a flush working its way up her cheeks. “What I mean is that I’d like to work. Help out in any way I can, I guess.” She gives a small, humorless smile at that, adding, “What else am I supposed to do otherwise, really? Sit around and wait for you to come home?”

It’s not unexpected that she’ll think so poorly of him ( _ them _ ) considering the circumstances of her being here, really, but it still stings a little. “Of course not,” he manages briskly, pretending to busy himself with his food. “Anything in mind?”

A beat as she composes herself, surprise giving way to cool steadiness as she lifts her chin almost imperceptibly. “I was thinking of helping out in the med bay,” she says, wary. “Back in Skaikru, I was the camp’s doctor. I had some training back on the Ark, too.”

He nods, meeting her gaze evenly. “Then it’s done.”

The clear disbelief on her face makes him ache, somehow, and he looks away before she can say anything else. “The medics take rotating shifts,” he says shortly, pushing his chair back. “I’ll tell Nyko to expect you at nine, tomorrow.”

She blinks up at him, clearly startled by the abruptness of his statement. “Oh, okay.”

“That’s fine? Not too early?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes, a small, hesitant smile twitching at her lips. The sight of it makes warmth bloom in his chest, sudden and staggering. “And Bellamy?”

He meets her gaze, impossibly  _ blue  _ and making his breath catch.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid.  _ “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

(The sincerity in her voice is what threatens to unravel him, in the end, and he ekes out a hasty  _ don’t mention it  _ before making a run for it, biting at the inside of his cheek to taper a smile.)

  
  


+

The easy, tentative camaraderie from before vanishes by the time night falls, with Bellamy growing increasingly quiet and distant as he leads her to his cabin.

Well.  _ Their  _ cabin, she supposes.

It’s a little smaller than she thought it would be, and neater, too. His shelves are filled entirely with books, bed carefully made, and she thinks she spots a chess set placed above a set of drawers.

“There isn’t much room,” He admits, reaching up to rub at the skin of his neck, sounding almost embarrassed. “But uh, don’t worry about it. I’ll clear some of my stuff by the end of the week so you can unpack.”

(It’s moments of unexpected sweetness like this that makes her feel strangely, immeasurably  _ fond  _ of her husband, really, and she tries not to think about how much more she’d  _ like _ him if none of this had happened in the first place.)

“Don’t worry about it,” Clarke shrugs, dropping her pack onto the nearest chair. “I don’t have much anyway.”

“Still.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she says firmly, reaching over to grab at a fresh set of clothes, folding and refolding them carefully so as to have something to do with her hands. “Is there a place I can get washed up, around here?”

He perks up at that, and she can practically  _ sense  _ his relief at the momentary distraction. “We have running water, if that’s what you’re asking. There’s a shower behind the door on the left.”

It’s a little hard to rein in her excitement at that, considering how the last few months or so have been spent washing up as quickly as possible by the lone river close to camp. “Wow,” she laughs, rubbing at her face, “that sounds… perfect, actually.”

That pulls a small, self-satisfied smirk out of him. “We have working latrines too, you know.”

She gives a little groan at that, working to restrain at the wide,  _ stupid  _ grin threatening to show on her face. “I wish I was kidding when I said that this is literally something right out of my fantasies.”

“It’s what every girl dreams of,” he replies, mock-solemn; the playfulness in his expression shuttering away just as quickly when she chances a glance over at the bed. It’s wide, clearly big enough for two, but she can’t help but feel a jolt of nerves at the thought of it anyway.

Bellamy clears at his throat, gaze darting away to the pile of books and papers by his desk. “I have some stuff to work on, so. You can shower first, if you want.”

She manages a quick nod; a brief smile. “I’ll try not to use up all the hot water.”

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to help it,” he counters, his form relaxing almost imperceptibly at that. (For some reason, it makes her feel a little better.)

The shower is a confusing series of exposed pipes and knobs, and she fiddles around with it until a rush of water streams out. Water pressure is close to non-existent, unfortunately, as is temperature control, but it’s impossible not to relish in it anyway. She manages to keep within fifteen minutes, shimmying into her clothes hurriedly before ducking out.

He has his back to her by the time she emerges, hair askew and humming softly under his breath. She can’t quite make out what he’s working on from where she’s standing, but she thinks he might be reading.

(A General  _ and  _ a voracious reader. It’s a surprising combination, at any rate.)

Steeling herself, she crosses the room, clambering onto the bed as nonchalantly as she can. There’s a soft, padded sort of mattress underneath the quilt, and multiple  _ pillows,  _ even. Hell, her bed on the Ark wasn’t even half as comfortable.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she calls out, casual as can be, “You don’t have a side, do you?”

He pauses at that, and it goes quiet enough for her to notice that he’s stopped shuffling the papers on his desk. “No,” he says, careful. “I can sleep wherever.”

It’s a innocuous enough statement, but she knows him well enough to understand the implication behind it, at least. She licks at her lips, blinking away the sudden surge of emotion welling up behind her eyelids.

“Well, don’t forget to come to bed after you’re done,” she manages, twisting her fingers into the sheets. “You’ll fuck up your back if you fall asleep in that chair.”

_ There. _

He doesn’t say anything to that— not right away, at least, and she has to resist the urge to turn over to look. When he finally brings himself to speak, his voice cracks on the word, “Okay.”

Smiling into her pillow, she pulls the quilt up to her chin, burrowing deeper under the sheets. It’s warm and soft and comfortable, here, and she’s already dozing off by the time she feels the mattress dip, a voice at her ear. “G’night, Clarke.”

She can feel her lips forming a reply, her tongue sliding against her teeth to tell him something; but then her vision goes dark, and it all slips away.

  
  


+

He wakes to the sensation of something  _ crushing  _ his arm. 

His first instinct is to pull away, naturally, but he stills at the realization that it’s  _ Clarke _ — her hair tickling at his nose and face pressed to his chest.

She makes soft, snuffling noises in her sleep; face slack and mouth slightly open. It feels like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t be, somehow, and he looks away, dropping his gaze down to the sheets instead.

It’s… not his best idea, considering how it gives him a prime view right down her shirt.

Giving a muffled swear, he shifts carefully, pulling his hips back. It’s only polite, considering how he’s pretty sure her waking up to his hard-on pressed against her stomach is less than a ideal situation.

She stirs, then, mumbling something under her breath, and he seizes the moment to slide his arm free. The logical part of him recognizes that he should wake her— it’s already half past eight, and she has to be at the med bay by nine— but it’s hard to remind himself of that when this is the most at  _ ease  _ he has ever seen her. Her lashes are pale under the morning light, face unlined, and it makes her look like the eighteen year old that she truly is.

Swallowing, he turns away, getting to his feet quietly. A cold shower is in order, as is breakfast, and he’ll wake her up after. It had been the same way he felt that night in the tent; watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. With everything she’s been through, she deserves all the rest she can get.

But surprisingly enough, she’s up by the time he finishes with his shower, hair neatly braided and already dressed.

She shoots him a rueful smile at his confusion, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I used the hose by the back of the cabin, if that’s okay,” she says, shrugging. “Didn’t want to be late for my first day.”

He blinks, rucking his fingers through his still-wet hair. She’s sitting on the bed, which,  strangely enough, is _distracting_ for him. “Of course it’s okay,” he manages, shaking himself out of his stupor. “Do you— uh. Do you want me to walk you to the med bay?”

“I was thinking breakfast, first.”

“I’ll walk you,” he says, before he can overthink it. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to object to the idea, falling into step next to him as he flips at the lock to their cabin.

It’s quiet as they make their way down the familiar path to the mess hall, and he finds himself thinking, absently, about the things he has to get done for the day. There’s the council meeting, for one, and a visit down to the forge, followed by—

“Bellamy?”

He snaps back into awareness at the sound of her voice, hand going instinctively to the dagger by his hip. “Yeah?”

The motion doesn’t go unnoticed, if the little amused snort she gives is any indication. “Did I scare you?”

“You caught me off guard,” he counters, huffing. Still, he doesn’t miss the slight lift to her lips at that; a hint of a smile. “What,” he tries, grinning, “are you hoping that I’ll impale myself on this if you distract me enough?”

“I need you to unsheathe it first for that to happen,” she says primly, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jacket. It feels like a nervous tic on her part, though he can’t seem to fathom  _ why  _ she’ll feel that way around him. (Indignance and disgust seem more likely for Clarke Griffin than  _ nerves _ .) “Is it a customary part of Yujleda tradition, though? Toting daggers around wherever they go?”

“Pretty much.”

That gives her pause, faltering in her steps. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” he nods, drumming his fingers against the hilt. “We’re all given one, when we turn of age. Back then, the point was to keep a dagger on hand for the purpose of an honor suicide, should it come up, but Yujleda doesn’t practice that anymore. Now, it’s for protection. Self-defense.”

Her brows rise up to her hairline at that, a frown rising to her lips. “That’s… very militant, of Yujleda.”

“It was widely practiced through all the clans, at one point.” He explains. “We broke free from the coalition, came up with our own laws and ways of doing things.”

“Huh.”

The clear doubt in her voice makes him wish he could explain himself— explain about the situation with Azgeda, and how they had all done things they deemed necessary in the face of war— but he refrains, in the end. She has no reason to believe him, anyway, and it would be pointless of him to try and convince her of that.

“Does it have a name?” 

He turns over to look at her, and it’s an effort to keep the surprise from showing on his face. There’s no reproach in her tone whatsoever, just curiosity, and it’s… not what he’s expected, if he’s being entirely honest.

“Atlas,” he says finally, unsheathing it slightly to show her the inscription on the hilt. Then, unwittingly, “My mother was the one who came up with it for me. It was a part of a matched set.”

“To endure,” she says softly, and he jolts at it, despite himself, reeling back slightly. The expression on her face is unreadable, but he can practically see her mind working, scrutinizing his words. “What does the other one say?”

It’s not a question that’s entirely out of left field, but the words still land like a blow to his ribs. “Atlas had a brother,” he ekes out, closing his eyes. It’s all he can manage, at this point, and his relief at her silence makes him feel a little weak to the knees.

The mess hall looms just ahead of them, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been more grateful to see the familiar jut of the building’s roof. “Well, here we are,” he says abruptly, clearing at his throat. “Have a, uh. Good breakfast, I guess.”

That same incomprehensible expression, and he watches as she folds her arms over her chest; the motion almost protective. “Thanks.”

Bellamy manages another curt, brief nod, turning away—

“Wait!”

He jerks to a stop, then, spinning on his heel to face her. There’s something akin to worry in her eyes, but her voice is steady when she asks, “Do you— do you want to have breakfast with me?”

It’s a lot to process, considering all that has happened in the past five minutes. She must sense his hesitation, though, because she adds, wry, “No questions about your brother, I promise. Or your blade. Or any mythological figures, for that matter.”

He can’t help the half-laugh that escapes at that. “I don’t have a brother, Clarke.”

“I don’t  _ care,  _ Bellamy.”

He’ll probably come to regret it, really, but he finds himself moving before he can help himself, pushing at the door with his palm. “After you, Princess,” he tells her, and this time, she doesn’t bother trying to hide her smile.

  
  


+

It takes two weeks for her to start getting used to her work at the med bay, and three more for her to settle into her life at Yujleda. She has a routine going for her by the time the fifth week rolls around, though— getting through her days in the same practiced, easy sort of fashion.  

Mornings always begin with her staggering out of bed, muttering and swearing under her breath while Bellamy hides a smirk behind his mug, sipping at his gross, dark coffee. He takes her to breakfast, after; somehow manages to brew her tea for her exactly the way she likes it despite the ungodly hour. On the days they serve french toast, his portion somehow ends up going to her plate at his insistence that he’s had  _ more than enough. _

(Resistance is futile, so she eats it every time, grumbling a little under her breath. At this point, she’s pretty sure he knows that it’s mostly for show.)

They go their separate ways by the time the rest of the breakfast crowd rushes in— with her heading towards the med bay while he goes over to the council room. She won’t see him for the rest of the afternoon, considering his hectic schedule, so she alternates lunches with Raven and Harper instead. Sometimes, they’re joined by Miller or Monty or even Jasper, and it’s  _ nice _ to be able to lose herself in their chatter.

Still, there are days where she’d rather be alone, so she goes out to the lake whenever she needs some peace and quiet. It’s a little further out from the forge, relatively deserted, and she’s starting to think of the place as  _ hers,  _ really, when she stumbles upon them.

_ Them _ being Bellamy and his new recruits, to be more specific.

They’re sparring, from what she can tell; their voices ringing through the clearing and punctuating the air with the sound of metal striking metal. She blinks, taking in the scene before her, gaze instinctively landing on a wild set of curls, the tanned expanse of skin—

He spots her at that exact moment, brows furrowing in confusion before his expression seems to clear almost instantaneously, morphing into a small, wry smile instead. It’s enough to get her traitorous pulse racing, her mouth going dry when he strides over, movements languid and predatory all at once.

She has a split second to think about how impractical it is for him to be sparring  _ shirtless  _ before he’s standing right in front of her, in all his sweaty, barechested glory.

“Princess,” he greets, with the cock of his chin. The motion is distinctly quizzical, drawing her eyes over to the tendons of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders.  _ God.  _ “What brings you over to this part of the woods?”

It takes almost all of her willpower to keep from  _ staring  _ at the sweat gleaming against his skin, but Clarke manages, somehow. “Peace and quiet, actually.” She finally gets out, shrugging. “Though, it looks like I’m a little too late for that.”

“Oh,” he frowns, planting his hands on his hips. “Yeah, we had to move because Monty’s insisting on a little botany lesson for the kids today. Poison ivy is really common around these parts, you know.”

“Poison ivy?”

“Yeah. Last time, the whole  _ camp  _ came down with a rash.”

She nods, folding her arms across her chest. She shouldn’t say it, she  _ really  _ shouldn’t,  _ but _ —

“Shouldn’t you put on your shirt then, if that’s the case?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, clearly, if the dangerous glint in Bellamy’s eye is any indication. Her cheeks flame instantaneously at it, backing up a few steps as the smile tugging at his lips turns into a full blown smirk.

“I don’t know,” he says, with a comical grimace, “I think I need to cool off, don’t you think?”

_ Showoff.  _ She rolls her eyes— then, summoning the most flippant voice she can muster, “I don’t know. You look fine to me.”

“Well,  _ you  _ look a little flushed,” he counters, taking a pointed step forward; his grin downright  _ feral _ when he asks, “Everything okay?”

She can make out the ripple of his muscles with each movement, and it’s distracting enough that she nearly trips over her own feet,  _ barely _ managing to keep herself upright.

“I’m fine,” she huffs, straightening to her full height. “I’m just… you know.”

But he’s still  _ looking  _ at her, all expectant, and she finds herself sifting through her scrambled thoughts for an excuse—

“Excited,” she finishes lamely, jerking her chin towards the figures weaving through the trees, blades flashing. “It’s, uhm. Really cool.”

The smugness from before gives way to curiosity at that, his face going thoughtful. “Huh.”

“What?” She shrugs, arching her brow over at him. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No, but,” he pauses, sizing her up, “would you want to learn?”

She doesn’t  _ gape _ at him, but it’s a near thing. “As in, learn how to  _ fight _ ?”

“To protect yourself,” he corrects, nodding. “I could get a blade made for you, if you want. It’ll take two days, tops, and you’ll be able to join us for the next session.”

“Join you guys?” she echoes, giving a nervous laugh. “I’m nowhere on the same level as everyone else.”

“Yeah, but,” he shakes at his head, sighing. “Look, will you just let me get a blade made for you, at least? It’s probably best if you didn’t walk around  _ anywhere  _ undefended.”

That’s true, at least, considering how even the odd coyote would wander into their borders from time to time. She pulls a face at that, though, making sure to wrinkle her nose for emphasis. “Fine, but you’re not naming it.”

“Hey, I take  _ offence  _ at that.”

“You should,” she beams, shooting him a wide, sunny smile. Then, before she can lose her nerve, “And put on a  _ shirt,  _ Bellamy.”

She doesn’t wait for his response before turning on her heel, marching back down the path towards the med bay. (She doesn’t have to, anyway, his laugh ringing through the clearing and sending the birds scattering into the sky.)

  
  


+

He doesn’t normally get in earlier than Clarke does, considering his job scope— so suffice to say, he’s more than a little surprised to come home to a empty cabin.

Still, there’s some time before dinner anyway, and it’s not like he has anywhere to be.

Easing back into his chair, he grabs at the plans they’ve been working on all day, squinting up at them in the low light. Azgeda soldiers are on the move, according to their sentries, and it won’t be long before they start marching towards Yujleda. They’d be responsible for holding the line, which  _ meant _ —

The sound of rapid footsteps stomping up onto the porch snaps him out of his reverie, the door swinging open as Clarke bustles in; hair askew and cheeks pink.

She doesn’t seem to notice him, at first— too busy with unzipping at her jacket all whilst toeing off her boots— and he’s just about to  _ say  _ something to alert her to his presence when she looks up, startling at the sight of him. “ _ Jesus _ , Bellamy.”

“Just Bellamy is fine, really.” He says, mostly because he’s difficult like that. It earns him a light smack to his shoulder as she darts past him, pulling her hair up into a sloppy ponytail. (For some unfathomable reason, the easy,  _ effortlessness _ behind it makes him smile.) “Long day?”

“I have  _ vomit _ on my shirt,” she says as a means of explanation, peeling her sweater off and pulling a fresh one one over it. It’s not like she’s not wearing anything underneath it, but he still looks away all the same. “Did you know about the new virus sweeping the camp?”

“Cabin fever?”

That pulls a disgruntled snort out of her. “I  _ wish.  _ It’s a stomach bug. Nyko and I had to borrow some buckets from maintenance as a precaution.”

“Sounds unpleasant,” he remarks, watching as she makes a face at the unidentifiable stain smeared across her jeans. 

“God, it’s no use,” she grumbles, glaring down at herself. “I’m going to have to take a shower. Do you want to head down to the mess hall first?”

He shrugs, sitting back down. “It’s fine, I’ll wait. I’m not all that hungry anyway.”

Her responding smile is soft, a little teasing. He has to resist the urge to reach out, then, to press his thumb into the little dimple by her cheek. (It’s something he’s been thinking about more, lately, and he refuses to dwell on what it could possibly mean.) “Liar,” she tells him, arching a brow over at him pointedly before ducking into the bathroom. “I won’t be long!”

“So you say,” he snorts, lifting his legs up onto the table so he can tilt his chair back.

“I heard that!”

“Meant for you to,” he counters, directing his focus back onto the spread of papers before him.

It’s easy to get caught up in the details of the operation, the intricacies of who should go where on a battlefield, and he’s not sure how much time has passed before he remembers to look up, neck  _ aching  _ and limbs stiff. It’s gone quiet, and for half a second, he considers if Clarke could have left without him noticing when he feels a hand reaching past him, plucking at the sheet in his grip.

His argument dies in his throat at the seriousness of her expression, chin cocked and brows furrowed.

“Azgeda,” she says quietly, drawing out the word on her tongue. “That’s… Ice Nation, right?”

He blinks, straightening in his seat. “Yeah,” he manages, clearing at his throat. “They have a new Queen, and there has been movement that indicates she might head south to seize the territories here.” There’s a part of him that’s questioning the stupidity of him  _ telling  _ her all of this, really, but he finds himself saying anyway, “And possibly beyond that, too.”

She nods, frowning. “So you’re saying that they want to be in charge.”

“Pretty much,” he says, rucking his fingers through his hair. “We’re right in the line of fire, so there’s no doubt that we’ll be the casualties of whatever long game they’re playing.”

“That’s why you guys were seizing the territories in the area,” she says slowly, looking up at him for confirmation. “You guys were building a line of defense, for when Azgeda comes barreling through.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that she figured it out this quickly, really, but he can’t help but feel a surge of pride for her all the same. “Yeah. That’s why—”

“—you came for Skaikru,” she finishes, setting the sheet down back onto his desk. “We’re undefended, weak. Azgeda would have steamrolled right over us and kept going.”

“They’re well-defended, now.” He points out, shooting her what he hopes passes as a reassuring smile. “Or at least, that’s what I’m told. I’ll bring you when I go down for a visit.”

“You better,” she says, poking at his ribs. Her voice is light, though it’s impossible to miss the crease between her brows, the tense set of her jaw. Then, biting at her lip, she continues, “The ravine.”

“What about it?”

“You should bring the fight over there, instead.” She says, reaching over to shuffle through the stack of papers until she finds the one she wants, laying it out before him. “See? It’s advantageous, plus there are trees on the fringes of it. Gives you a higher vantage point,  _ and  _ a surprise factor.”

It’s a possibility, one that they haven’t  _ considered,  _ with all their focus directed on fortifying the camp for an attack. “Cut the bridge,” he says, brain racing with the possibilities, “and position the archers up in the trees. We’ll be able to pick them off even before they make their way up.”

“Exactly,” she says, face alight with something akin to excitement. “You know the gas masks that Raven made? We can even bring those in the mix. Fit our soldiers with them, and throw a few smoke bombs down to disorient them. The other clans don’t have the access to tech like you do. They’ll be caught completely off guard.”

He’s always known that she’s shrewd, cunning— but this is the first time that the force of it is directed _with_ him rather than against him, and the thought of it makes him smile; _blindingly_ bright despite his best intentions to reel it in. “You ever considered becoming a tactician, Princess?”

“Stick with me,” she grins, patting at his shoulder; fingers grazing against his bare skin and flitting away just as quickly, leaving a trail of burning in its wake. “I’m full of surprises.”

  
  


+

They’re mid-way through fall by the time the harvest festival roll arounds, with Jasper insisting that they make a spectacle out of it.

“It’s  _ well-deserved _ ,” he sniffs, swirling his cup before her; the sharp, pungent smell of moonshine making her gag. “It’s been a tough year, Clarke. People should get the opportunity to let loose and have fun.”

“Sure,” she says dryly, tipping the proffered cup back to him, “and that’s what the bonfire is for, right?”

That noise that he makes in response is distinctly derisive. “It’s not a  _ real _ party without some booze,” he points out, downing his cup in one go. “I’m going to roll the barrels out. Sure you don’t want to sneak a taste before the lines get crazy?”

“I’m good,” she laughs, waving him away. “Go! I wouldn’t want you to deprive everyone of their much needed  _ fun _ .”

He manages a two-fingered salute at that, stumbling back towards the mess hall.

It’s impossible to make out much considering the crowd and the smoke, but it doesn’t stop her from trying to keep an eye out for Bellamy anyway. It’s not like it _matters_ or anything, but it’d be nice to see a friendly face.

The thought of it gives her pause, if only for a second. Somehow or the other, without her looking— they’ve tumbled past the threshold of barely restrained animosity to something actually resembling  _ friendship.  _ It’s disorientating as it is jarring, really; mostly because it had never felt like  _ this,  _ even with Wells.

Her relationship with Wells had been easy. Simple. The kind of love that came with growing up with each other, and never quite knowing how to stop after.

It was different, with Bellamy. Being with him was combative and challenging and maddening, all at once— the kind that came with looking at someone and recognizing all the pieces that held them together. They were made of the same stars and bones and dust, and on some days, she hated him for it.

But there were times when being with him was as natural and instinctive as _breathing,_ too— the kind that filled her lungs and chest that made bearing the weight of the world that much more tolerable. He steadied her hand, just as she kept him on his feet; a effortless push and pull that made each day just a little easier.

(In the end, like calls to like, she supposes. No matter how far apart they appear to be.)

She jerks to awareness at the sight of a familiar figure weaving through the crowd, craning her neck to get a better look—

“Don’t,” Bellamy starts, giving a irritable huff when she bursts into laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth to smother the sound. “ _ Seriously, _ ” he says, a smile playing on his lips, “They got to me, and who was I to resist?”

She’s not sure what comes over her, but she’s moving before she can overthink it; reaching up to adjust at the flowers woven in his hair. It’s definitely the handiwork of one of the girls over by the field, and the thought of him sitting patiently while they string stems of wildflowers into his hair makes her smile. “Aww, come on. I think you look  _ very  _ pretty like this.”

He grins up at her from between a fan of dark lashes;  _ boyish _ and playful in a way that she’s never seen before. “So what I’m hearing is that you think I’m the prettiest out of everyone, right?”

“I guess,” Clarke says, tilting at her chin in mock contemplation. Then, scrunching at her nose, “But only because I’m not in the running.”

The laugh he gives sends a surge of warmth all the way down to her toes. “We can always change that,” he points out, his thumb grazing at her cheek when he leans forward to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “C’mon, Princess. Don’t tell me you’re all talk.”

“Are you saying that  _ you  _ know how to make a flower crown?”

He cocks a brow over at her, looking almost _offended_ by the insinuation. “You’re doubting my abilities?”

She gives a slow, drawn-out shake of her head, pulse pounding deafeningly loud in her ears. “Prove it, then.”

His gaze seems to darken imperceptibly at that; dropping to her lips before looking away just as quickly, clearing at his throat. “Well, since you asked so  _ nicely, _ ” he says, flopping down onto the ground and gesturing at her to do the same. “Your flower crown is going to blow everyone else’s out of the water.”

Fighting a smile, she follows suit, pulling her hair free of its braid carefully. “So what I’m getting is that you’re going to help  _ me  _ put  _ you  _ out of the running,” she teases, slinging her hair tie around her wrist. “Interesting strategy.”

His fingers are gentle as they card through her hair, nails grazing at the back of her neck and making her breath come short. “It wasn’t much of a competition in the first place anyway,” he rasps, twisting a section of her hair aside and sliding a flower through the strands. She closes her eyes at the sensation instinctively, biting back a whimper.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

She relaxes eventually, though; lulled by his deft, sure movements and the sound of the bonfire crackling in the distance. “You’re good at this,” she muses, angling herself so she glimpse him from the corner of her eye. “Do I  _ want  _ to know how a General managed to acquire such varied skills?”

That pulls a small smile out of him; mouth ticking upwards. “My mom was a seamstress, so I picked up a couple of things, growing up.” He says, shrugging. “And I’ve always been good with my hands.”

Bellamy doesn’t mean anything by it, she’s sure— or at least, not in the way she  _ wants  _ him to— but she can feel heat pooling in her belly all the same; pressing her thighs together surreptitiously to keep from squirming. “Huh.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, I’m just,” she pauses, searching for the words, “curious, I guess. I don’t know all that much about you.”

He stills at that, hands freezing in her hair for a split second before he’s moving once more; movements brisk and sure. “Do you want to?”

It’s easier like this, she thinks, not being able to look at him. “Yes,” she manages, hitching her knees up to her chest. Then, lightly, “I mean, since we’re going to be stuck with each other for a while, anyway.”

“Try to sound a little less excited, Princess.” He snorts, shaking at his head wryly. She can feel the tips of his fingers in the space between her shoulder blades, burning through the thin fabric of her shirt. “Hand me your hair tie. We’re just about finished here.”

“Yeah? Took you long enough.”

“I’ll have you know that perfection takes time,” he says, prim, before helping her to her feet. Instinctively, she reaches back to pat at her hair, making him yelp when it sends a petal fluttering to the ground. “Hey,  _ watch  _ it. You’ll ruin my masterpiece like this.”

She reaches over to poke him in the ribs, laughing. “Lighten up, old man. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Like you would know,” he huffs, adjusting at one of the flowers in her hair.

“Well, I love it either way,” she declares, grinning, and the flush that rushes up his cheeks almost makes her want to do it again.

He looks as if he wants to say something to that, his lips already forming the words— just as he’s interrupted by a sudden shout in the distance, growing progressively louder at Miller’s approach.

“Fuck,” Bellamy groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I was supposed to help him with the feast, but—”

“— you got sidetracked,” she finishes, and it only dawns on her how  _ close  _ they are when she has to step back to let him pass. “You should go before Miller gets up here and drags you off by your hair.”

“He does have the arms for it,” he says, grave. Then, wetting at his lips, “I’ll, uh. I’ll look for you, after?”

“Okay,” she says, falling into step next to him. The crowd seems to have grown significantly since the past hour or so, and she can already spot a line forming by Jasper’s barrels, barely obscured by a line of trees. “I’ll be the one with the flowers in her hair.”

She doesn’t startle at the feel of his hand at her cheek, but it’s a near thing; his thumb sliding over the curve of it before he pulls away, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And pollen on her cheeks,” he says evenly, flashing her a rueful smile before turning away. “See you later, Clarke.”

“Sure,” she manages, waiting until he disappears from sight before pressing her fingers against her burning cheeks, willing for them to cool. She feels overheated, somehow, and the thought of his hands leaving the same trail  _ elsewhere  _ on her body makes her knees go a little weak.

( _ God.  _ She… Yeah, she needs a drink.)

  
  


+

The festivities are in full swing by the time he trudges back out to the bonfire; a fine sheen of sweat forming on his brow and shirt plastered uncomfortably to his skin.

Miller is not doing any better, if the half-scowl on his face is any indication.

“I might actually skewer the next person who steps on my toes,” he huffs, aiming a dirty look over his shoulder as someone barrels past, sending them careening towards the barrels of moonshine. “Just—  _ fuck.  _ Seriously?”

Normally, this would be the time where Bellamy would suggest that they make some sort of excuse before beating hasty retreats back to their tents,  _ but _ , well.

Clarke’s here. And waiting for him, most likely.

“It’ll clear out once everyone gets to dancing,” he points out, situating himself by the closest tree. Like this, he can get a pretty good view of the crowd before him, which should make finding Clarke easier. Well, short of hoisting himself up on a branch and calling her name, at least. “You want something to drink?”

“Don’t bother,” Miller grumbles, glowering over at the tangled mass of bodies hovering over Monty and Jasper. “Besides,  _ someone  _ has to pick these drunken idiots off the floor once this is all over.”

“So, I take it you’re volunteering?”

“Only if their bodies are in the way of the mess hall.”

“Cute,” he deadpans, straightening to his full height and scanning the crowd once more. Still no sign of her, though he’s trying not to feel too anxious about it. It’s highly likely that she’s off getting some food,  _ or _ —

“She’s right there, genius.” Miller cuts in, jerking his chin towards the middle of the field.

He’s not sure what it says about him that he can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed about the apparent transparency of his feelings, but he looks over anyway— catching sight of her almost immediately.

She’s chatting and laughing with Raven by the bonfire, a cup of moonshine in hand; cheeks pink and hair curling wildly around her face. The braid is still intact, as is the flowers, and it takes a conscious amount of effort  _ not  _ to stare, really.

“So,” Miller asks, his question arched, “are you going to do something or are you just going to stare from all the way here?”

It’s his turn to scowl, then, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not just going to walk on over and  _ interrupt, _ ” he grouches, leaning back against the tree. “That’ll be rude.”

“Uh, I must have missed the part when you’re suddenly all about manners and formality.”

“I’m the  _ paradigm  _ of manners and formality.”

“Only when it comes to Clarke Griffin, apparently,” he mutters, slouching back next to him. It lasts for all of three seconds before he stiffens, elbowing him in the ribs. “Shit. Incoming on your left.”

He frowns, turning instinctively on his heel. “Where?”

“Right  _ here, _ ” Miller says through gritted teeth, nudging at his foot pointedly. He winces at the sharp jolt of pain, barely managing to compose himself—

“Miller,” she nods, before turning her focus back on him; her smile teasing. “Bellamy.”

He blinks, taking her in. “Bree,” he greets, careful. It’s been awhile since he’s last seen her, but then again, it’s not like they’re actually  _ friends _ beyond the occasional hookups a few years back. “Having fun?”

She shrugs, fingers drawing up to his chest, lingering, and he finds himself jerking out of reach almost instinctively. 

“I could be having more,” she laughs, cocking her chin over to the writhing mass of bodies on the floor. “Dance with me?”

“I don’t dance,” he says reflexively, chancing a quick glance over to the spot where Clarke had been just moments before. Raven’s still there, but she’s nowhere in sight, and the thought of it makes his stomach clench painfully. “Sorry. You can try convincing Miller here, but the guy has two left feet.”

“Yeah, no.” Miller says, flat, and he has to suppress a laugh at Bree’s responding glare, melting back into the crowd without another word.

“That was smooth.”

“Nice work, pinning it on me.” He mutters, sounding increasingly irate. There’s a split-second where Bellamy finds himself feeling almost  _ guilty  _ for it before he catches the way his gaze slides over to Monty, determination knitting at his brow. “I’m going to get a drink,” he continues, abrupt. “You want one?”

He can’t help his own grin at that, reaching over to pat at his back encouragingly. “Nah, I’m good.”

“... Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” he manages, pushing at his shoulder. “Go. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He’s pretty sure he catches Miller swearing lowly under his breath before he ducks out of sight, disappearing into the trees.

Huffing out a laugh, he eases back to his spot, keeping an eye out for her. It’s likely that she could have  _ left,  _ but he still keeps searching anyway, jerking upright whenever he sees anyone remotely resembling her.

He’s just about to call it a day when he hears it— the sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush; a figure emerging from the shadows.

“ _ Hey _ ,” Clarke beams, walking up to him. “There you are.”

He can practically feel all the breath rushing out of him at once. “Hey,” he croaks back, wiping his clammy palms on his jeans surreptitiously. “I was wondering where you went.”

“Decided to try out the rabbit stew, as per Raven’s recommendation.” She says lightly, bumping at his arm. “I would have asked you along, but you seemed busy.”

For a second, he can only stare blankly at her, scrambling to catch up. It only dawns on him that she means  _ Bree  _ when someone gives a little shriek from the dance floor, twirling their hands up above their head.

_ Shit.  _ “Hey,” he starts, his mouth going dry at the raise of her brow, the tilt of her chin, “that wasn’t— you  _ know  _ it wasn’t—”

“Dance with me,” she interrupts suddenly, extending her hand out. The skin of her palm glints glow in the orange light; fingers long and slender and pale. Artist hands.  _ Clarke’s _ hands.

He wets at his lips, an argument already poised on his lips—

“Okay,” he says instead, and her answering smile burns so bright that he has to look away.

(It’s too late, anyway. He’s pretty sure the sight of it is going to be imprinted on the back of his eyelids for the rest of his life.)

 

+

Clarke’s drunk.

It’s the only explanation for the flare of jealousy that rises up within her when she sees that girl with her fingers splayed over his chest; the only explanation for why she’s  _ dancing  _ with Bellamy, chest to chest and breathing the same air.

Granted, she’s pretty sure that the proximity on his part is mostly just so he can keep her upright, but, _still._

“Wow,” she laughs, the next time he bumps at her feet, “okay, I think I finally found the one thing you’re terrible at.”

“Me?” he splutters, indignant. “You do realize that you’re stepping on my  _ toes _ , right?”

“Am not,” she says primly, stumbling slightly in her haste to get off him when she realizes that she, in fact,  _ is.  _ “I’m an excellent dancer, okay? Back on the ark, I was a total party animal.”

That earns her a eyebrow raise on his part. “Really?”

“Really.” She nods, solemn. “We had these— like you know, drinking games? And I was flip cup champion. _Champion,_ Bellamy.”

“Amazing.”

“You’re,” she squints over at him, smacking at his shoulder at the realization, “you’re  _ laughing  _ at me, aren’t you?”

He shoots a wry look over at her, then, the tilt of his mouth teasing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Princess.”

“It’s not funny,” she huffs, reaching over to slap at his arm once more. It lands somewhere in the vicinity of his chest instead, which is… surprisingly firm. “Let me guess, you never went to any parties. That’s why you’re so terrible at this.”

The edges of his mouth are twitching; as if holding back on a smile. “Oh, I see how it is,” he nods, his hand sliding down to the small of her back to pull her closer, “you think I don’t have any moves, don’t you?”

“You  _ don’t _ ,” Clarke insists, flushing at his pointed smirk, the way his gaze seems to grow incrementally darker as they rock closer together. She can feel the hard planes of his chest pressed against hers, his breath fanning warmly over her cheek.

He makes a soft, non-committal noise at that— lips grazing over her brow, skimming at her temple. When he speaks, his voice is low. Quiet. “You sure about that?”

She can feel goosebumps breaking out over her skin; her breath shaky and coming short. “You  _ don’t, _ ” she echoes weakly, her eyes fluttering shut instinctively when he tightens his grip on her hips.

Her last coherent thought is that Bellamy might actually  _ kiss  _ her before she’s suddenly being  _ lifted _ off her feet— the world dissolving into a blur of colors as he spins her round.

“ _ Bellamy! _ ”

He cracks up, slowing down as she claws at his shoulders, yelping. “I thought you said I didn’t have the moves, Princess.”

“That is  _ not  _ a move,” she declares breathlessly, clinging onto him as he comes to a stop, still chuckling. Like this, she can feel the rumble of his chest as he gives another delighted laugh; the sturdiness of his arms around her lulling her as she sinks into him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Great, now I’m dizzy.”

“You’ve been dizzy for the past half hour.”

“Please,” she grumbles, swatting at his shoulder ineffectually. “I was fine until you decided to become a human carousel.”

Another laugh, this time right by her ear. The sound of it fills her with warmth, makes her snuggle closer. “Alright, alright. You wanna call it a night?”

“Yeah, okay.”

A beat, and she can feel him shifting his weight to his other foot as he begins to walk, one arm sliding under her knees so he’s cradling her instead. “You gonna stay up here, Princess?”

She snorts, eyes sliding shut at the sudden wave of wooziness threatening to overwhelm her. “Well, you might as well make yourself useful.”

“... Fair.”

He goes quiet, after that, the sound of his deep, even breaths soothing to her own ears. They’ll be home in a matter of minutes, back in their warm, soft bed— and she’ll wake to the familiar weight of his arm banding across her side, just like how she has every day for the past few months.

The thought of it is immensely comforting, somehow. “Hey,” she murmurs, nudging at him lightly. “Hey, Bellamy.”

She can hear the smile in his voice when he asks, patient, “What?”

The words spill out before she can help herself, her head lolling back as she tells him, “I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what, now?”

“The way she was touching you.” She manages, petting at his chest clumsily. Her fingers slip away before she can get a better grasp at his shirt, and she can’t quite summon the will to move now that she’s in this position. “She shouldn’t— she  _ doesn’t  _ get to. Not now.”

He doesn’t say anything to that— long enough for her to wonder if he’s going to brush past it entirely before he speaks, his voice wry, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Clarke mumbles, nuzzling deeper into his warmth, the darkness pulling her under. “Not when you’re supposed to be mine.”

  
  


+

With everything that has been going on, he doesn’t get to go to the forge until a few weeks after.

The hearth has cooled by the time he pushes through the double doors; the anvils and tools hanging neatly from their racks and the coal scuttle emptied. Thankfully, no one stays past dinner time if there aren’t any urgent orders pending, so he gets the whole forge to himself to make Clarke’s dagger.

He’s in the midst of building a fire when he hears the familiar groan of the door easing open; sharp, cool air rushing in for a split second and causing the flames to falter.

Cursing, he coaxes it up once more, biting out a terse, “ _ What? _ ”

“I should be asking you that question,” Raven points out, drawing up next to him to poke at the flames, adjusting at the bellows with careful precision. “I saw the smoke all the way from the mess hall. What are you up to, Blake?”

He ekes out a half-hearted grunt, shrugging. “What does it  _ look  _ like I’m doing?”

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s impossible to tell with you. Some days it’s horseshoes, and other days it’s weapons of mass destruction.”

“Yeah, I think you might be mixing us up, Rae.”

That pulls a small smile out of her, at least, and he goes back to stoking the flames absentmindedly. Once they’re at the optimal height, he grabs at the bundle by his feet, unwrapping it and sliding the blade into the hearth.

She makes a small sound of protest at it, her eyes going wide. “Isn’t that…?”

He nods, managing a careless shrug once more despite the lump in his throat. It’s difficult, still, but it  _ feels  _ right, somehow. Fitting. “Yeah,” he says, reaching for the anvil. Carefully, he trims his sister’s blade down, folding down layers and layers of steel to shape something new. “Clarke’s looking for one, and it’s not like anyone’s using this one anymore.”

There’s a long pregnant pause before she finally brings herself to speak, hesitant, “You could have always made her a new one.”

“I want her to have this one,” he says simply, shifting at the blade to work at the hilt.

Raven is staring at him with undisguised suspicion now, as if waiting for him to do something completely crazy, like yank off his clothes and streak down the street. He waits her out, arching a brow in—

“ _ Oh _ ,” she nods, comprehension dawning as she shakes at her head, grinning. “Okay, I get it now.”

He narrows his eyes over at her, frowning. “Get what now?”

“You  _ like  _ Clarke,” she says smugly, darting out of the way when he splutters something incomprehensible in response, “and this is one of your weird,  _ nerdy  _ ways of telling her you’re in love with her, right? You know, I really thought you’d go for—”

“ _ Shut up,  _ Raven.”

Her smile only grows  _ wider,  _ if anything. “You’re not even denying it,” she sighs, flicking at her ponytail. “A tip? Maybe actually  _ tell _ her how you feel, instead of leaving her creepy, homemade gifts.”

“I don’t need your help,” he grumbles, hating the petulant note to his voice.

The exasperated noise she makes suggests otherwise, pretty much. “Just go tell your wife how you feel, Blake,” she calls out, clucking at her tongue disapprovingly as she turns to leave, “or at least before someone tries to snatch her up!”

He lobs a grease-stained rag over at her, then, scowling— the bundle landing in a haphazard pile on the ground as the doors slam shut.

  
  


+

The thing is, it’s not like she  _ means  _ to go looking for him.

But somehow or the other, Clarke ends up hovering outside the council room anyway— hand half-poised by the door and nerves gnawing at her.

It’s possible that he’s not even here _ ,  _ really. He didn’t have the most fixed of schedules, after all, and it’s likely that he’s out with a hunting party before the worst of winter set in.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, she drops her hand back to her side, pulling back—

Only for the door to swing open, forcing her back a few steps.

For a split second, she can only stare, trying to comprehend the sight of Murphy standing by the door, fingers still latched onto the knob. According to Bellamy, he helped out with war strategy from time to time, but he was mostly in charge of sanitation, which made his presence her all the more  _ weird. _

“Are you supposed to be here?” she blurts out, folding her arms across her chest.

He makes a disgruntled noise at that, mimicking her stance. “Are  _ you _ ?”

She opens her mouth, a retort already springing to her lips before it dawns on her that it would be a good time as any to make her escape. “Nope,” she manages, shrugging. “You’re right, I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” he says silkily, his lips curling up into a smirk as he takes in her flustered state. “I bet Bellamy would want to know that you stopped by.”

The knowing glint in his eye makes her scowl; her traitorous pulse already spiking at the thought of it. “You don’t have to do that, Murphy.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I’m  _ going _ —”

He twists his neck back, then, still leaning absurdly against the door, “Blake! Your  _ wife _ is here to see you.”

_ Damn it.  _ She shoots him the most venomous glare she can muster under the circumstances, quickly composing herself when she spots him ducking through the door, stepping past Murphy to get to her.

“Hey,” he says, a grin splitting over his face. His cheeks are pink from the cold, hair rumpled with flakes of snow already settling in his curls, and it takes almost all of her willpower to keep from doing entirely  _ stupid,  _ like kissing him right there and then. “Everything okay?”

She blinks, tearing her gaze away from the curve of his mouth. “Uh, yeah.”

“You sure?” he asks, concern etching at his brow. “You look a little out of it. Did something happen?”

“No,  _ no. _ ” She says hastily, rubbing at her face with her free hand.  _ God.  _ Every single one of the explanations and excuses she had thought up on the way here sounds false to her own ears, but he’s  _ still _ looking at her like he wants answers, and—

“It’s stupid, I guess,” she starts, biting at her lip, “but I thought you’d be hungry, so. Here.”

He stares down at her outstretched palm— surprise quickly giving way to wonder as he plucks at the apple from her grip, laughing, “It’s the middle of  _ winter.  _ Do I want to know how you got this?”

“I might have taken a little trip down to the greenhouse.” She shrugs, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep her own smile from showing. It’s one of the first few things she’s noticed about Bellamy— his love for fruit. Apples are clearly a favorite, but she remembers the sharp tang of citrus on his fingers during the summer months; the stray pears that he would pluck at by the crop of trees at the lake. “Don’t tell Monty.”

“Not if I ever want to step into the greenhouse again,” he quips, biting into the apple with a decisive crunch. The smug, exaggerated way he’s chewing at it makes her snort, shaking at her head when it only seems to encourage him, wiping at the juices with the back of his hand roughly. “How about you, Princess? Eaten yet?”

“I’m good,” she manages, sliding her hands into the pockets of her coat. A part of her is tempted to linger; to ask him if he wanted to walk down to the lake with her, frozen over and distinctly picturesque in the fading afternoon light— but she resists at Murphy’s pointed glare, taking a step back instead. “I should go, though. You seem busy.”

He frowns, his gaze following hers and landing on Murphy.

“Actually,” he says suddenly, turning back towards her, “do you have a minute to spare? I’d like to pick your brain on something.”

She blinks, and it’s an effort to keep her surprise from showing, really. “What about?”

“Our strategy to deal with Azgeda,” Bellamy says, nodding. “Our scouts have caught some movement on their part, and I could use a sound second opinion on our course of action.”

The thought of them— of  _ any  _ soldiers, really— barreling through Skaikru territory makes her feel antsy and unsettled all at once. Still, she manages a small smile, falling into step next to him, “I mean I don’t  _ mind, _ ” she teases, nudging at his ribs, “but don’t you have advisors for this sort of thing?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like any of them will tell me if I’m being an absolute fucking  _ dimwit,”  _ he says dryly, shouldering the door open for her.

“It was asshole, actually,” she corrects, ducking at her chin to keep him from spotting her big,  _ stupid  _ smile. “And you were being one, if I’m being entirely unbiased and honest.”

“See?” He grins, bumping at her shoulder. “This is precisely why I need you, Clarke Griffin.”

His words send a jolt of emotion rushing through her; of  _ pride  _ and triumph and a twinge of longing that she can’t bring herself to decipher. Not yet.

“Count on it,” she tells him, sweeping through the door and into the room— letting him guide her towards the head of the table, dropping into the seat right next to his.

  
  


+

(It becomes a unspoken sort of rule, after, that she is to attend every single one of the council meetings and strategy sessions. She can’t say she minds, especially not when the  _ Princess  _ nickname starts sounding more like a compliment than anything.)

  
  


+

It’s late by the time he eases the door open, slipping inside quietly.

The candles and lamps are still lit, glowing faintly as he strips himself of his clothes, easing his boots off carefully. It makes a soft  _ thump  _ against the wood as he sets them down by the door, and he can’t help but wince at the slight noise—

“Bellamy?”

He freezes, turning around to face her. “Hey,” he says softly, drawing up to the edge of the bed. Her hair is falling loose from her braid, eyes sleepy and unfocused, and he can’t help the tug of  _ affection _ he feels, looking down at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke yawns, propping herself up on her elbows. “I was planning on staying up until you got in, but  _ Othello  _ isn’t exactly a riveting page turner.”

“Says you,” he says teasingly, leaning over to close the half-opened book. Her sketchbook is next to it, loose sheets sticking messily from the top, and he thinks he catches a glimpse of his profile before she spirits it away, tucking it back into her drawer. “But if it bores you, I can try and trade for something more exciting the next time.”

She makes a small, pleased noise at that. “Maybe something with pirates.”

“Of  _ all  _ things, Princess.” He snorts, getting up to put the book away. (He’s learned over the past few months that Clarke isn’t the  _ neatest  _ person there is, and while he’s almost always tempted to leave her and her habits be, he really doubts he’ll be able to live in squalor.)

“You know, it would do you some good to read something  _ fun, _ ” she points out, coming up behind him. He can feel the skin of his neck warm when she goes up on her toes, propping her chin on his shoulder. “What’s that?”

He raises a brow at her, skeptical. “It’s been all of five minutes, Clarke. You may not like it, but it’s  _ still  _ a book.”

“Not that,” she says impatiently, tapping at the cloth-wrapped package strapped to his belt. “ _ This _ .”

“Oh,” he says awkwardly, shifting away so he can unlatch it from his belt. “Uhm, it’s for you, actually. I promised you a blade, not too long ago.”

She brightens considerably at that, falling back on her heels as he hands it over. “You remembered.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought you would be a little busy spearheading a huge,  _ vastly _ important war effort,” she says wryly, unwrapping the package in several deft, sure movements. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for forgetting, really.”

“We.” He corrects, and at her puzzled expression, adds, “ _ We  _ spearheaded a huge, vastly important war effort. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The color that suddenly floods at her cheeks makes him grin, which, in turn makes her scowl. “I  _ hate  _ you,” she grumbles, huffing. “Don’t—  _ god,  _ shut up already.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I can feel you laughing on the  _ inside, _ ” she says primly, scowling when it sets him off once more. “Look, it’s not  _ you,  _ okay? It’s just— hot in here.”

“Sure.”

“It  _ is _ !”

“Okay, okay.” He relents, side-stepping out of the way when she swipes at him, eyes narrowed. “Hey, could you maybe try that again without the sharp, pointy thing in your hand?”

That gives her pause, at least— her gaze shifting over to the blade as she wraps her fingers over the hilt, tracing at the intersecting lines and circles carved on it.

The symbols of Skaikru and Yujleda respectively, banded together by two rings.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, her voice wobbling slightly as she looks up at him. The expression on her face is reverent, and he has to look away before he  _ combusts _ , somehow. “It looks like yours,” she continues, oblivious. “Did you— did you make it yourself?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says, clearing at his throat. It feels almost too personal to admit out loud, but he can’t stop thinking of that single moment all those months back; weaving flowers in her hair, and the steadiness in her reply when he had asked her,  _ do you want to? _

_ Yes. _

“It was a part of the matched set I was telling you about,” he manages, exhaling shakily. “Not exactly, but, uh. I melted down the original, and made this instead.”

She bites at her lip, darting a glance over at him. There’s hesitation in it, but curiosity, too, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it, this time. “The one we talked about before?”

“That’s the one,” he says lightly, forcing a smile. “Mine was Atlas, and the other was Menoetius. They were brothers, you know. They fought  _ with  _ the Titans, and lost.”

“Menoetius,” she echoes, tilting at her chin. “That— translates to might, right?”

“Doomed might,” he murmurs, flexing at his fingers. If he closes his eyes, he can just about it hear it— the lilt to her her voice as she stretched the word out, her ringing laugh when they had sparred, as children. “It belonged to my sister.”

He startles when he feels her brush up against him, weaving their fingers together. It’s a show of support and assurance, more than anything, and he finds himself calming under her steady, even gaze. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Clarke whispers, squeezing at his palm.

It’s a tempting thought, if he’s being entirely honest— but his resolve holds out, in the end. “No,” he says, through the lump in his throat. “I want you to know.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just squeezes at his palm once more. Waits.

He doesn’t really know where to begin, but he finds himself talking anyway. Telling her about Octavia, and how he had climbed his first tree going after her, scraping his hands on the bark. How she had been all limbs and bite and deep, unyielding anger, even as a kid. How, eventually, in the end, she had lived up to her blade’s name.

The candles are burning low by the time he finishes; his throat dry and eyes wet. Clarke’s head is lolling against his shoulder, their fingers still interlaced, and for a second, he thinks she might have actually fallen back asleep.

“It reads like a Greek tragedy,” she says quietly, rubbing her thumb absently across his knuckles. “Like the stories that you love so much.”

He barks a sharp, humorless laugh at that. “I probably doomed her right from the start, naming her Octavia,” he says, resting his chin onto the crown of her head. She’s soft and warm, in his arms, and he thinks that this might be the most  _ light  _ he has ever felt in years. “She didn’t stand a chance, with a name like that.”

“That has to be it,” she says, butting at the side of his neck gently.

They’re half-leaning against the desk, both drowsy from sleep and the heat roaring from the fire; and he’s just about to suggest going to bed when she speaks, her voice thoughtful. “I think I know what to call my blade, now.”

Bellamy pauses, blinking down at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, one hand reaching up to touch at his face; her fingers cool against his cheek. “Gaia. The earth.”

He shivers at the contact, leaning into it, despite himself. “Why’s that?”

“Because when Zeus punished Atlas,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “He told him to brace the sky up with his hands, standing on the Western edge of the earth. He thought he was alone, all this time, but he wasn’t. Not really. And that’s what we are to each other, Bellamy. If you have to hold up the sky, then I’ll be the ground, holding you steady beneath your feet.”

He twists at his neck, pressing a kiss at the space between her brows; brimming with everything he can’t seem to put into words, with everything that he can’t bring himself to say.

“So,” he says thickly, giving a watery laugh, “what I’m getting is that you want me to step on you. Is that right, Princess?”

He’s expecting a teasing remark in response; a nudge to his ribs, maybe— but when she speaks this time, it’s solemn.  _ Sincere. _

“It means you won’t be by yourself,” she tells him, her breaths evening out as she leans into him; trusting him to bear her weight. “It means you’ll never be alone, ever again.”

  
  


+

It doesn’t occur to her that something’s wrong until she hears the sound of hooves thundering past the med bay.

There’s a beat as she and Nyko exchange tense, alarmed looks. Distantly, she can make out the sound of spears clattering against one another; the metallic groan of the gate to the compound being lifted.

“Go,” Nyko says, nodding. “I’ll catch up.”

She barely manages a brief nod back before she’s running, bursting out into the open and right into the fray. It’s pure  _ chaos,  _ outside— a cluster of bodies and horses and voices, rising and falling in the din. Her gaze catches, instinctively, on a flash of worn grey, of bronzed skin—

“Miller!” She shouts, pushing her way towards him. “Hey,  _ Miller _ !”

He stops in his tracks, hands still poised at the dagger strapped to his hip. “Clarke?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, drawing up to him. “What’s going on? Where’s Bellamy? Is he—”

“He’s fine,” Miller interrupts. “For now, at least. We just got word that Azgeda is attacking, so we’re going out there to provide reinforcements.”

She can feel her breath seizing in her chest at the thought of it; her hands going cold. “Skaikru? Are they— is it—”

The clench of his jaw is all the answer she needs, really. “I’m coming with you.” She manages, fumbling for her own dagger, barely managing to get it unsheathed with trembling, shaking hands, “Let me change, and get me a horse.”

“ _ Clarke.  _ You’re untrained, and untested. You’ll just be a liability if you go.”

“I don’t  _ care _ .”

“Well, you goddamn  _ should _ .”

A part of her is tempted to shout him down, to  _ make  _ him see— but then again, she’s never been one to lose her head, especially when someone else’s line of logic makes so much damn sense. Crossing her arms over her chest, she bites at her lip instead, considering her next course of action.

Then, she sees him.

His expression is grave, brows drawn together in a tense line when she reaches over for him, grabbing at his elbows for support. Still, he doesn’t waver, keeping her upright as she sways unsteadily before him.

“You’re going,” she states, loosening a long, shaky exhale. Bellamy stares back at her, unflinching, and for a second, she thinks she glimpses the same hardened warrior that she had first met all those months ago. “Do you have everything in place?”

“Everything,” he assures her, sliding a hand up to cup at her face. It’s the most intimate contact he’s initiated,  _ ever,  _ and the thought of it thrills her as it does send dread sliding down her stomach.

(It’s not the last time they’ll be seeing each other. It  _ can’t.  _ She won’t allow it.)

“I have no doubt that you’ll be able to handle yourself, if you came along.” He continues, shaking at his head ruefully. “But there’s no one else that I trust more to hold down the fort here.” He wets at his lips, thumb coming up to stroke gently at her cheek. “You know what to do, Clarke. Keep our people safe.”

She chokes out a laugh, leaning forward to kiss at the skin by his mouth; desperate and wanting. “I need  _ you  _ to be safe.”

“I’ll try,” he tells her, wry. “Hey.  _ Hey.  _ I have Miller with me, remember? I’ll be fine.”

“Far for me to doubt him.”

“Course not,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss against the space between her brows; his breath fanning against her skin and making her shiver. “I won’t be long, Princess.”

Clarke’s not sure how much time has passed with them just like this when a shout goes up, causing them to pull apart.

When she looks up, Miller has Hestia’s reins in his grip, and she think she feels Bellamy’s fingers brush up against hers once more before he’s heaving himself up onto the saddle,  his face unreadable.

“I’ll be here,” she manages, through the lump in her throat. “We’ll— we  _ will  _ meet again, Bellamy Blake. You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

A smile twitches at his lips; amused and  _ fond _ , her favorite look on him. “I wouldn’t dare,” he rasps, his voice hoarse with emotion. “May we meet again, Clarke Griffin.”

It’s an effort to meet his gaze when her eyes are burning, her throat clogged with emotion. “I know we will,” she tells him, steady.

(She keeps her gaze on him the entire time it takes for him to charge through the gates, weaving through the trees until he’s nothing but a speck in the distance, a figure rapidly disappearing out of sight.

Then she turns on her heel, and orders the gates shut.)

  
  


+

They don’t make it back until a week later; most of them alive and just a little worse for wear.

“We should have cleaned up before we left,” Miller grumbles, easing his horse up to the same pace as Hestia’s; the trees blurring before them and the familiar gates of Yujleda looming in sight. “It’s going to be hard for anyone to get excited when we smell as if we rolled in manure.”

He can’t help his own snort at that, exhaustion weighing at his bones and making his breath come short. “Speak for yourself,” Bellamy counters, smirking, “I smell like I rolled in a field of fucking daisies.”

“Funny, you don’t smell like any daisies I know.”

“That’s because flowers actively avoid you,” he says absently, straightening as ground beneath them begins to shake; the gates rumbling open before them.  _ Home.  _ It hasn’t been all that long, but the sharp ache of longing still feels fresh, somehow. (It’s possible that it’s the gash by his ribs, but at this point, he’s pretty sure it’s the former.)

Carefully, he maneuvers Hestia inside; head swivelling as he takes in the sight before him.

Nothing appears changed, which is a relief, to say the least. The cheers start up as soon as  everyone else begins to flood in, and he thinks he spots a few familiar faces as he begins his dismount; his pulse thumping furiously against his chest.

There’s only really  _ one  _ person he wants to see, and she’s nowhere in sight.

Tamping down the disappointment rising in his throat, he turns towards the stable hand rushing up to him, handing over Hestia’s reins—

Only for something to collide straight into him, nearly sending him sprawling onto the ground.

There’s a disorientating moment when all he can see is the sun; burning bright and gold against his eyelids— then comprehension comes rushing back in, and he realizes that the person holding him up is  _ Clarke;  _ her arms vice-like around his shoulders and her face buried into the side of his neck.

Bellamy can’t help it, he laughs; a bright, fucking  _ delighted  _ sound. She’s here. She’s right here, in his arms, and nothing has ever felt better.

He buries one hand in her hair, pulling her closer, the other banding over her waist to keep her steady. “Hey honey,” he tries, his voice cracking despite his best efforts at nonchalance; despite his best efforts at staying cool and unaffected, “I’m home.”

She gives a breathless laugh at that, tightening her grip on him. “You fucking  _ idiot _ .”

“Your idiot,” he amends, soft, and he can feel her melt against him entirely; pressing a kiss against the jut of his shoulder before pulling away.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, frowning as she steps back to assess him carefully. Her fingers probe at the bloodied rag by his side, the slice across his cheek. “Jesus, Bell.”

“They’re shallow,” he reassures her, turning over to nose at her palm gently. “I’m fine, Clarke. So is everyone else. We lost a few of our own, but Skaikru is safe, and none of your friends back home are hurt. I made sure of that.”

She nods, her shoulders slackening slightly. “Good,” she murmurs, her hand dropping back to her side. “Everything’s alright here, too. We’ve been in lockdown for the last five days, but I let a hunting party out just yesterday. They should be back anytime now.”

“Thank god,” he smiles. “I don’t think I can stomach any more rations and jerky.”

“Jasper told me they bagged a deer, so definitely not.” She says, reaching forward to slide her hand into his. He grips back with equal force, feeling the small, bird-like bones of her wrist, the smoothness of her skin. “I’m— I’ll have to help Nyko out with everyone’s injuries. But will you wait for me, back in the cabin? I’ll fix you up there.”

He’s this close to lumbering back to the cabin and collapsing as it is, so it’s a sound suggestion, if anything. “Wow,” he teases, squeezing at her palm. “Are you telling me I get to skip the line, doc?”

“Husband privileges,” she says wryly, pushing at his shoulder lightly. “Go on. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you,” he gets out, and it’s an effort to keep his grin from showing, really, and it’s all because she called him her  _ husband.  _ (God, he’s pathetic.)

He makes it back to their cabin without further incident; stripping off his armor and running a wet towel over himself to clean off the blood and gore before flopping back onto the bed. The rudimentary stitches pull at his wound almost painfully as he lies back, and he has to shift slightly to get comfortable.

Still, he must doze off somehow, because the next thing he knows, it’s dark out, and he has his head in Clarke’s lap.

“Hey,” he rasps, tilting his head back. “You didn’t wake me?”

“Felt that you could use the rest.” She shrugs, hands carding through his hair. “Besides, you’re a lot more tolerable when you’re asleep.”

“Low blow, Princess.”

He shivers when he feels her fingers at his ribs, ghosting them over the line of stitches carefully. “Turns out, there isn’t much fixing up to get to,” she says lightly. “These aren’t the  _ neatest,  _ but they’ll work.”

_ Told you so,  _ he tries to say; the words dying in his throat when she bends over, dropping a kiss right at the edge of his wound. It steals his breath, makes his head go fuzzy, especially when she trails her fingers up to his jaw instead, stopping short by the edge of his lips.

“This one’s just a graze,” she continues, and it’s impossible to miss the slight tremor of her voice at that; her thumb making slow revolutions against his lower lip, moving up to trace at his cupid’s bow. “No stitches required. Just rest.”

It feels like they’re both holding their breath, somehow; the air fraught with a kind of tension that makes him feel as if they’re balanced on the edge of something improbable and impossible, all at once.

“What,” he asks, rising up onto his haunches carefully. She doesn’t move her hand away despite the movement, and he can feel a full-body shiver sweeping through her when he exhales roughly against her skin. “You’re not going to kiss it better?”

He meant it to be playful.  _ Teasing.  _ But his voice is rough and her eyes are dark and he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there’s no going back from this one.

She licks at her lips, cocking a brow over at him. “Do you want me to?”

“Do  _ you  _ want me to?” he counters, swallowing hard when she presses closer, lining their foreheads up together. She’s close enough that he can feel the flutter of her lashes against his skin; the sound of her breathing uneven and jagged.

“Yes,” she whispers, and that’s all it takes for him to surge forward, closing the distance between them.

He tastes laughter on her lips as she kisses him back, eager and hot and sloppy as they fall back onto the bed, bouncing slightly. Her hands are greedy against the planes of his back, her nails digging into his shoulder blades when he nips at her clavicle, soothing it with his tongue after.

“Took you long enough,” she says breathlessly, crossing her ankles behind him as if to keep him close; biting softly against his jaw, the curve of his shoulder. “You really made me come right out and say it, huh?”

He drops his face to the side of her neck, embarrassed and pleased all the same. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” he murmurs, dropping a tender kiss there. It pulls a soft whimper out of her, and he repeats the motion, grinning. “I just— I didn’t want you to do anything you didn’t want to.”

Her groan is chastising; hands drifting down to his boxers and yanking them down, grasping at him and making him curse. “I want  _ you,  _ okay? I have for the longest time now.”

“Yeah,” he says, once he finds his voice, rucking up the thin shirt she’s wearing and sliding his hand into her underwear; making her gasp at the first press of his fingers. “I can tell.”

They don’t bother getting fully undressed, the first time, only pulling off their clothes far enough for him to sink into her, groaning. The next few times are slower, languid— a blur of wandering hands and lazy kisses and the sound of her breathless laugh against his ear, urging him on as he chases his release.

She sprawls over him, after, pillowing her head against his chest and their legs intertwined. The world has gone quiet, muted; and he busies himself with working out the knots in her hair.

(He can’t help but feel as if the moment would shatter if he stopped touching her, somehow— that everything would dissolve before him, and he would wake to the sight of an empty bed and rumpled sheets.)

“Hey,” she murmurs suddenly, her voice hazy with sleep and something he can’t seem to place. “ _ Hey.  _ You awake?”

He rumbles his assent, stroking his fingers over the skin of her stomach, touching idly at her hip. “Nope.”

That pulls a small, impatient noise from her before she turns over, dislodging his arm from his perch so she can face him; her chin resting against his sternum. “Very funny.”

“I’m hysterical,” he agrees, nodding. The look on her face is serious, though; _ determined _ , and he can’t help the spike of nerves that rushes through him at it. “What?”

She reaches over, touching at his cheek, and it’s that alone that finally convinces him that it’s all  _ real _ , strangely enough; that he’s not going to wake up to realize that it was all a dream.

“You’re mine,” Clarke murmurs, closing her eyes. “I just thought you should know that.”

It feels like a conversation they had once before, a half-remembered dream that he can’t bring himself to focus on right now. Maybe he’ll remember the details of it tomorrow, or the day after, or the day  _ after  _ that. But for now, it’s enough, and he reaches over to lace their fingers together.

“Just as you are mine,” Bellamy tells her, right as the darkness claims him.

  
  


+

He’s waiting for her by the time she finishes up at the medbay; her pack slung over her shoulder and her dagger at her hip.

It takes a lot to be able to sneak up on him, but Clarke tries anyway, darting up to him and tapping at his shoulder. He sighs at it, turning to face her just as she side-steps away, spinning on her heel to plant a smacking kiss against his cheek instead.

“Hi,” she grins, resting her chin against his shoulder. There’s a small smile twitching at the edge of his lips, and she leans over to poke at it, making him scowl. “Have you been waiting long?”

“You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago,” he says pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Need I remind you that this was  _ your  _ idea?”

She arches a brow over at him, turning away and swinging herself up and onto Hestia smoothly. “ _ You’re  _ the one who told me about the reconstruction efforts over at Skaikru, remember?”

“I didn’t think you would volunteer.”

“Liar,” she teases, sliding her feet into the stirrups. “C’mon, I know you want to be there. Are you really going to pass up on a opportunity to glare at Finn?”

Huffing irritably, he pulls himself up behind her. “If he looks at you all  _ moony-eyed  _ one more time, I might actually punch him.”

“Be my guest.”

That gets him to relent, at least; his arms wrapping around her waist firmly. “You ready to go?”

She takes up the reins, winding them in her grip. “Ready.”

Bellamy makes a small noise of surprise at that, ghosting his thumb over the skin of her knuckles, sliding down to tap at her wrist. “You’re steering?”

“You have a problem with that?” she asks, leaning back to press her weight into him. Like this, she can hear the steady, even thump of his pulse; the reassuring weight of his arms around her. Solid and immovable and  _ hers _ , more than anything.

He laughs, then, the motion stirring at her hair and making her close her eyes reflexively. (She’d like to remember this moment in time forever, she thinks— Bellamy’s laugh at her ear and the wind in her hair; his warmth at her back and his hand in hers.)

“Lead the way, Princess,” he tells her; the world blurring into a flurry of noise and color as she urges Hestia into a full-on gallop, disappearing through the trees.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at prosciuttoe!


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